nJ6K&3fc&M 


THE   ROMANCE 

OF    A 

PLAYWRIGHT 

BY 

VTE.  HENRI  DE  BORNIER 


From  the  French 

BY 

MARY   McMAHON 


NEW  YORK,  CINCINNATI,  CHICAGO: 

ER     BROTHERS, 

Printers  to  the  Holy  Apostolic  See, 


Copyright,  1898, 
BY  BENZIGER  BROTHERS. 


CONTENTS. 


PART    FIRST. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.— The  Opening  of  the  Chase 7 

II.— Story  of  a  Widow  and  a  Widower,      .         .         .16 

III.— The  Drama  of  Six  Periwigs 23 

IV. — A  Playwright's  Revenge, 33 

V. — "  Pichegru  Strangled!"       .         .         .  .56 

PART    SECOND. 

I.—"  The  Gaze  was  in  the  Tomb,"            ...  76 

II.— The  Gypsies, 84 

III. — A  Young  Girl's  Criticism  of  the  Comedy,    .         .  97 

IV. — The  Cleverest  of  Parisian  Actresses,   .         .         .  103 

V. — Preparations  for  the  Special  Scene,      .         .         .  in 

VI. — A  Theatrical  Manager's  Ruse 122 

VII.— The  Real  Victim,       .         .         .         .  .131 

VIII.— The  Cid's  Error,         ......  144 

IX. — A  Manager  on  Hot  Coals,           ....  157 

X.— The  Letter  "G"  and  "The  Lake,"            .          .  167 
XI. — The  General  Returns  to  the  Campaign,       .         .181 

XII.— The  Petit  Local 198 

XIII.— The  Last  Sonnet 221 


2224803 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  PLAYWRIGHT. 


part  Jfirst 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE     OPENING    OF    THE    CHASE. 

PREFECTS  are  not  always  fortunate;  their 
ambition  is  satisfied  with  occasional  good  luck. 
On  the  first  Sunday  of  September,  1878,  the 
Prefect  of  Tours  considered  himself  very  unfor- 
tunate. He  and  his  neighboring  colleagues  had 
fixed  upon  that  day  for  the  opening  of  the 
chase ;  on  the  morning  of  this  day,  so  impa- 
tiently looked  forward  to,  a  gentle,  persistent 
rain  set  in  and  continued  till  the  following 
Sunday — a  week  of  a  steady  rain,  unceasing  and 
pertinacious,  like  the  weary  loquacity  of  a  dull, 
prosy  orator.  This  is  why  the  Marquise  de 
Rill^'s  guests  were  not  extravagantly  cheerful 

7 


8  THE   OPENING  OF   THE   CHASE. 

on  this  afternoon  of  the  second  Sunday  of  Sep- 
tember, 1878. 

They  had  all  driven  over  to  the  neighboring 
village  to  Mass  in  the  morning,  execrating  all 
the  way  the  miniature  deluge  which  discolored 
and  marred  the  beauty  of  the  little  twelfth- 
century  church,  with  its  sixteenth -century  spire 
and  doorway.  They  returned  to  Rille  Castle  in 
the  same  beautiful  weather,  but  this  half-hour 
drive  scarcely  sufficed  to  clear  away  the  clouds 
from  the  brows  of  the  disappointed  huntsmen. 
Breakfast,  however,  brought  an  agreeable  diver- 
sion. Guests  are  generally  more  cheerful  and 
in  better  humor  at  breakfast  after  Mass ;  they 
bring  home  better  thoughts  suggested  by  what 
they  have  seen  and  heard,  and  good  thoughts 
always  light  up  the  countenance.  Then,  even 
among  pious,  reverent  Christians,  Mass  fur- 
nishes subject  for  discussion.  They  could  not 
fail  to  observe  the  unfashionable  toilettes  of 
the  mayor's  wife  and  daughters;  that  the 
schoolmaster  sang  out  of  tune,  and  the  Domine, 
salvam  fac  Rempublicam  grated  painfully  on 
their  ears ;  and  the  curb's  sermon — what  a  theme 
for  comment !  Were  there  not  direct  allusions  to 


THE   OPENING  OF   THE   CHASE.  9 

this  one  and  that  one,  indirect  reproaches,  les- 
sons addressed  to  whom  they  concerned  ?  Did 
not  the  good  cure  go  a  little  too  far  in  attack- 
ing worldly  luxury  so  violently,  and  anathematiz- 
ing extravagant  toilettes  ?  The  cure"  is  a  saint, 
but  he  is  certainly  rather  severe.  Breakfast 
over,  the  guests  separate,  some  going  to  the 
drawing-room,  others  to  play  billiards ;  for  the 
rain  still  continues.  It  is  a  protecting  rain  to 
the  hares  and  partridges ;  the  guests  must  re- 
sign themselves  to  their  disappointment.  The 
men  smoke  at  their  game  of  billiards,  the  ladies 
gather  round  the  large  table  in  the  drawing- 
room;  but,  as  it  is  Sunday,  fancy-work  is  not 
allowed — they  cannot  even  knit  for  the  poor. 
Reading  being  permitted,  some  one  reads  aloud 
the  Gazette  de  France;  the  literary  feuilleton 
meets  with  entire  approval,  the  rare  talents  and 
exquisite  grace  and  elegance  of  the  author  prove 
an  inexhaustible  theme.  Then  the  conver- 
sation turns  to  Paris  of  former  times ;  here  was 
cause  for  universal  pleasure  and  approbation, 
but  when  everybody  is  of  the  same  opinion 
conversation  soon  flags — the  men  as  well  as 
the  women  being  Loyalists,  there  was  no 


10  THE   OPENING  OF   THE   CHASE. 

opportunity  for  the  least  discussion.  Oh,  if 
they  only  had  one  small  Republican  to  demol- 
ish! 

The  rain  still  holds  on,  dismal  as  the  counte- 
nances of  the  twelve  or  fifteen  people  who  watch 
it  fall.  It  formed  a  lake  around  the  castle,  it 
rained  on  the  trees,  and  still  more  under  the 
trees,  and  a  member  of  the  Institute  hazarded 
this  quotation  from  Virgil :  "  Bis  pluii  in  sil- 
vio"  *  This  erudite  Latin  citation  only  in- 
creased the  general  gloom.  It  was  too  much ! 

Suddenly  the  Marquise  de  Rille,  breaking  the 
oppressive  silence,  resumed  the  conversation. 

"  My  dear  friends,"  said  she  in  her  sweet, 
clear  voice,  "  you  must  admit  that  you  are  all 
fearfully  bored." 

"  Oh,  madame !  Oh,  aunt !  Oh,  cousin !" 
they  all  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  I  see  that  you  are  tired  and  disap- 
pointed; it  is  my  fault,  for  I  have  not  provided 
entertainment  enough  for  you.  However,  I 
shall  try  to  do  so  now;  wait  a  moment."  So 
saying,  she  tripped  lightly  out  of  the  room. 

Madame  de  Rille",  despite   her  sixty  years, 

*  It  rains  twice  in  the  woods. 


THE   OPENING   OF   THE   CHASE.  it 

still  retained  her  shapely  figure;  her  pale,  calm 
face  was  crowned  with  beautiful  white  hair,  and 
her  grave,  handsome  eyes  sparkled  with  intel- 
ligence and  kindly  benevolence.  She  was  a 
childless  widow,  but  this  did  not  prevent  her 
loving  tenderly — rather  a  rare  thing  in  this 
world — a  host  of  nieces,  nephews,  and  cou- 
sins. 

She  returned  in  a  few  moments,  holding  in 
her  hand  a  small  square  box,  which,  with  a 
mysterious  air,  she  placed  on  the  table. 

"  What  have  you  there  ?  what  have  you 
there?"  asked  the  young  women. 

"  You  will  see,  children." 

She  then  opened  the  box,  the  inside  of  which 
was  a  sort  of  chess-board,  divided  into  numerous 
squares. 

"Examine  it  well,  and  then  listen,"  said  the 
marquise.  "  Nearly  three  years  ago  I  saw  a 
grand  metrical  drama  played  in  Paris.  The 
action  was  laid  in  the  time  of  Charlemagne, 
and  the  piece  opened  with  a  scene  which  seemed 
to  me  very  curious :  the  actors  played  '  The 
Game  of  Virtues.'  This  game,  unknown  to 
our  contemporaries,  even  to  the  ladies,  is  very 


12  THE   OPENING  OF    THE   CHASE. 

simple:  The  names  of  thirty-six  virtues  are 
written  on  a  chess-board;  one  of  the  players 
throws  a  die  at  a  venture  on  the  board,  and 
pledges  himself  to  practise,  during  one  or  sev- 
eral days,  the  virtue  designated  by  the  throw  of 
the  die.  They  may  even  throw  several  times, 
and  then  there  will  be  several  virtues  to  prac- 
tise. I  was  seized  with  the  desire  to  procure 
one  of  these  chess-boards,  and  made  search  in 
all  the.  shops  where  antiques  were  sold.  But 
'The  Game  of  Virtues'  had  become  obsolete, 
and  my  search  was  in  vain.  I  still  held  to  my 
idea,  however,  and  with  the  aid  of  my  cabinet- 
maker I  have  manufactured  one  of  these  boxes. 
Look,  on  each  of  the  thirty-six  squares  I  have 
written,  with  my  own  hand,  the  name  of  a  vir- 
tue. It  is  true,  there  are  only  three  theological 
virtues,  but,  with  the  subdivisions,  I  succeeded 
in  completing  the  necessary  number  of  thirty- 
six.  This,  then,  is  'The  Game  of  Virtues,' 
and  I  propose  that  we  make  use  of  it  to-day; 
it  will  certainly  be  more  amusing  than  watching 
the  rain  fall." 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  all  replied  eagerly. 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  begin.      But  to  prevent 


THE   OPENING  OF   THE    CHASE.  13 

confusion,  there  will  be  at  first  only  two  players, 
and  I  shall  select  them  myself.  Those,  how- 
ever, who  are  not  playing  must  watch,  encour- 
age, and  help  the  players  in  the  practice  of 
the  virtue  that  falls  to  their  lot.  This  being 
understood,  I  choose  my  charming  cousin, 
Marie  Poncette  Morel,  and  my  handsome 
nephew,  Robert  de  Salemberry.  Come  for- 
ward, Poncette;  come,  Robert."  A  young 
woman  and. a  tall  young  man  stepped  out  of 
the  group. 

"Poncette,"  said  the  marquise,  "take  the' 
dice-box  from  the  backgammon-table,  put  one 
of  the  dice  in  it  (one  is  enough) ;  now  throw  it 
on  '  The  Game  of  Virtues,'  without  looking." 
Poncette  smilingly  obeyed  and  threw  the  die 
as  she  was  directed.  The  marquise  carried  the 
chess-board  to  the  window,  the  better  to  read 
it,  and  returned,  saying : 

"  The  virtue  designated  by  your  throw  is : 
'Avoid  ridiculing  your  neighbor! '  " 

Had  the  marquise  read  aright  ?  Did  she  not 
cheat  a  little,  or  aid  the  venture  by  her  perspi- 
cacity ?  Who  knows  ?  At  all  events,  the  com- 
pany exclaimed  in  chorus,  with  a  laugh  which 


14  THE   OPENING  OF   THE   CHASE. 

seemed  to  say,  "  The  reading  of  the  cast  is 
clever. " 

Poncette  Morel  blushed  slightly,  but  soon 
recovered  her  self-possession,  and  said  with  a 
smile : 

"  I  shall  find  it  difficult,  but  I'll  try.  How 
long  must  I  practise  this  little  virtue?" 

"  Let  us  make  it  a  fortnight,"  replied  Ma- 
dame de  Rille.  "  And  each  time  that  you  fail 
in  the  practice  of  it,  my  dear  child,  you  will 
give  me  five  hundred  francs  for  my  poor.  You 
are  rich." 

"  I  fear '  I  may  not  be  at  the  end  of  the  fort- 
night." 

"  That  is  your  affair.  Now  it  is  my  nephew's 
turn,  the  great  and  celebrated  poet,  Robert  de 
Salemberry.  Throw  the  die,  Robert." 

The  marquise  took  the  box  to  the  light  as 
before,  and  returned  from  the  window,  saying : 

"  This  is  the  virtue  fate  imposes  on  my  dear 
nephew:  'Repair  the  injury  that  has  been 
done.'  " 

"  Fate  is  mistaken  this  time;  I  have  nothing 
to  repair." 

"  We  shall  see  about  that  later,  my  handsome 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  CHASE.     15 

nephew.  Take  time  to  reflect  upon  it,  to  exam- 
ine carefully,  and  judge  yourself  conscientiously. 
For  the  present  we  shall  occupy  ourselves  with 
my  dear  Poncette ;  in  a  fortnight,  when  she  has 
gone  through  this  trial,  difficult  enough  for  her, 
I  fear,  we  shall  think  of  you,  Robert.  This  is 
what  is  expected :  From  this  moment,  Marie 
Poncette  Morel  is  to  endeavor,  God  helping, 
under  the  eyes  and  in  the  judgment  of  her 
friends  and  relations,  to  practise  the  particular 
virtue  allotted  her." 

This  is  the  way  the  Marquise  de  Rille^s 
guests  in  September,  1878,  opened  the  chase 
of  the  virtues,  which  consoled  them  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  for  not  being  able  to  chase  hare, 
deer,  and  partridge. 


CHAPTER  II. 

STORY  OF  A  WIDOW  AND  A  WIDOWER. 

CHANCE,  aided  or  corrected  by  the  clever 
dowager,  had  struck  home.  Madame  Marie 
Poncette  Morel  had  but  one  fault,  but  she  had  a 
full  complement  of  that  one  :  it  was  a  mania  for 
ridiculing  others.  This  cruel  propensity  in  which 
she  took  pleasure  was  hers  naturally  and  by  edu- 
cation. It  was  her  way  of  being  cheerful  and 
amusing.  Yet  she  had  reason  enough  to  be 
sad. 

Madame  Morel  was  the  widow  of  a  banker  of 
Tours,  who  married  her  when  she  was  only  six- 
teen, partly  for  her  pretty  face,  but  chiefly  for 
her  handsome  fortune ;  and  at  eighteen  she  was 
the  most  unhappy  of  pretty  women.  Shame- 
fully deceived  by  her  husband,  she  endured  it  at 
first,  for  she  was  proud  and  hid  her  sorrow ;  but, 
unfortunately,  this  hidden  chagrin  soon  changed 
into  bitterness,  which  made  her  look  upon  all 

16 


STOR  Y  OF  A    WIDO  W  AND  A  WIDO  WER.     1 7 

men  with  a  sort  of  contemptuous  pity,  believ- 
ing them  all  to  be  formed  upon  the  model  of 
the  inconstant,  volatile  M.  Morel.  She  was 
clever,  and  used  her  wits  freely  in  ridiculing 
the  foibles,  faults,  eccentricities,  and  even  the 
misfortunes  of  that  sex  which,  according  to 
the  grammar,  is  nobler  than  the  feminine. 

She  took  special  delight  in  the  sufferings  of 
certain  married  men,  and  their  misfortunes 
were  the  occasion  of  her  keenest  witticisms. 
Although  perfectly  correct  herself,  she  was  most 
indulgent  towards  frivolous  women,  because 
of  the  annoyance  they  caused  their  husbands; 
not  wishing  to  revenge  herself  on  her  own 
spouse,  she  would,  at  least,  take  revenge  on 
those  born  under  an  evil  star,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  M.  Morel  received  a  vague  reflex, 
as  it  were,  of  the  fatal  planet.  Her  perfect 
sense  of  honor  and  her  religious  principles 
permitted  her  no  other  retaliation.  M.  Morel, 
however,  ended  his  days  better  than  he  had 
lived;  he  was  killed  in  the  war  of  1870. 

A  widow  at  twenty,  without  pretending  to 
display  any  more  grief  than  she  felt,  Poncette 
determined  to  tempt  fate  no  more,  to  remain  a 

2 


1 8      5 TOR  Y  OF  A   WIDO  W  AND  A    WIDO  WER. 

widow  and  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  expressed  in 
the  poet's  verse  :  "  Suave  mart  magno — "  * 

All  that  remained  to  her  of  her  marriage  was 
an  invincible  tendency  to  ridicule  husbands,  and, 
in  her  eyes,  all  men  were  husbands ;  they  have 
been,  she  would  say,  they  are,  or  they  will 
be !  Among  those  whom  she  most  wilfully 
ill-treated  was  Baron  Louis  de  Nolongue,  a 
distant  cousin  of  hers  and  also  of  her  hostess, 
the  charming  dowager  whom  we  have  just 
depicted. 

Baron  Louis  de  Nolongue  had  a  painfully  sad 
history,  and  a  more  merciful  cousin  would  not 
have  been  so  cruel  as  to  laugh  at  it.  An  or- 
phan from  his  early  youth,  without  guide  or 
counsel,  he  made  a  very  foolish  outset  in  life. 
At  nineteen  he  married  a  German  several  years 
his  senior,  and  very  much  less  unsophisticated. 
After  a  few  months  of  married  life,  she  longed 
for  the  windmills  on  the  banks  of  the  Spree, 
thinking,  perhaps,  that  she  would  not  find 

*  ' '  Suave  mari  magno  turban tibus  sequora  ventis, 
E  terra  magnum  alterius  spectare  laborem." 

— Lucretius  «'. ,  /. 

"  'Tis  pleasant,  when  the  seas  are  rough,  to  stand 
And  see  another's  danger,  safe  at  land." 


5  TOR  Y  OF  A   IVIDO  W  AND  A    WIDO  WER.      1 9 

enough  windmills  in  France  upon  which  to 
throw  all  her  caps.* 

There  was  a  scandal,  a  lawsuit,  a  legal  sepa- 
ration, and  then  one  fine  day  the  blond  Gretchen 
died.  Her  husband  was  the  only  one  who  wept 
for  her,  for  he  did  weep !  One  of  the  mysteries 
of  the  masculine  heart  is  this  nervous  sensibil- 
ity which  seizes  and  overcomes  it  at  the  death 
of  an  unworthy  wife,  if  the  guilty  one  has  ever 
been  loved,  were  it  but  for  a  day.  The  tears 
Louis  de  Nolongue  could  not  hide  were  recorded 
in  heaven,  but  the  world  laughed  at  them.  As 
to  Ppncette,  she  laughed  openly  at  his  grief; 
it  was  the  first  cheerfulness  she  had  shown 
since  the  conventional  mourning  of  her  widow- 
hood. 

Such  frivolous  women  are  not  mourned  very 
long.  M.  de  Nolongue  retained  only  the  scar 
of  the  double  wound  inflicted  by  his  marriage 
and  the  death  of  his  unworthy  spouse.  There 
are  fatalities  in  life.  Three  or  four  years  later, 
Louis  de  Nolongue,  whose  heart  was  too  tender 
to  remain  empty,  fell  in  love  again — and  with 

*A   French  proverb:    "Jeter  son  bonnet  par-dessus   les 
moulins."     To  defy  public  opinion. — [TRANSLATOR. 


20      STOR  Y  OF  A   WIDO  W  AND  A    WIDO  WER. 

whom?  None  other  than  his  scoffing  cousin, 
Poncette  Morel.  He  asked  her  hand  through 
Madame  de  Rille",  but  Poncette  refused  him 
very  decidedly,  preferring  to  remain  a  widow. 
She  could  not,  however,  miss  such  a  splendid 
opportunity  of  venting  her  ironical  sallies, 
which  were  like  an  explosion  of  fireworks;  it 
would  be  impossible  to  relate  all  that  she  in- 
vented in  the  way  of  sharp  epigrams,  spiteful 
allusions,  and  petty  innuendoes.  Louis  de  No- 
longue  felt  all  this  keenly,  but  he  suffered  in 
silence,  confiding  his  tribulation  only  to  his 
cousin,  Robert  de  Salemberry,  who  consoled 
him  as  best  he  could;  unfortunately,  for  cer- 
tain sorrows  there  is  no  consolation. 

Poncette  was  not,  however,  malicious ;  if  she 
had  had  any  idea  of  the  torture  she  inflicted  on 
her  cousin,  she  certainly  would  have  deprived 
herself  of  this  small  pleasure,  for,  strange  as 
it  may  seem,  she  was  really  not  bad  at  heart. 
Moreover,  she  was  fully  convinced  from  the 
first  that  chance,  or  Madame  de  Rille's  clever- 
ness, had  contrived  by  this  "  Game  of  Virtues  " 
to  teach  her  a  lesson,  and  the  laughter  of  her 
friends  on  this  occasion  made  her  feel  that  per- 


STOR  Y  OF  A   WIDO  W  AND  A  WIDO  WER.      2  i 

haps  the  lesson  was  deserved ;  but  as  she  had 
no  intention  of  enriching  the  poor  in  whom  the 
marquise  was  interested,  Poncette  resolved  to 
be  on  her  guard  and  to  restrain  her  habitual 
railleries. 

During  the  entire  day  she  went  about  among 
the  marquise's  guests,  making  herself  equally 
agreeable  to  both  ladies  and  gentlemen,  saying 
something  pleasant  to  each  in  the  most  gracious 
tone  and  with  the  most  winning  smile.  She 
continued  in  this  charming  mood  at  dinner  and 
all  through  the  evening.  In  vain  were  snares 
laid  for  her;  they  only  afforded  her  an  oppor- 
tunity of  practising  her  new  virtue.  The  con- 
versation was  vainly  turned  on  subjects  likely 
to  rouse  her  spirit  of  raillery;  she  withstood 
the  almost  irresistible  temptations,  giving  seri- 
ous, well-considered  replies  to  the  most  insidi- 
ous questions.  When  asked  what  she  thought 
of  the  Marquis  de  X.  's  prolonged  stay  in  Paris, 
she  answered,  with  apparent  conviction :  "  M. 
de  X.  is  having  a  work  on  political  economy 
published,  upon  which  he  has  labored  for  ten. 
years,  with  the  aid  and  advice  of  one  of  the 
professors  of  the  College  of  France." 


2  2      STOR  Y  OF  A   WIDO  W  AND  A   WIDO  WEK. 

Up  to  ten  o'clock,  the  solemn  hour  at  which 
they  all  separated,  Poncette's  brilliant  triumph 
was  deservedly  admired  by  all.  Just  as  she 
was  about  to  leave  the  room  she  approached 
the  marquise,  and  handing  her  a  pocket-book 
said : 

"  My  dear  cousin,  there  are  five  hundred 
francs.  And  now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the 
name  of  our  friend  M.  de  X.  's  collaborator :  she 
is  called  Eulalie  Reseda  Finemouche.  Poli- 
chinelle  told  me  this  secret." 

And  taking  her  malachite  candlestick  from 
the  mantel,  she  fled  from  the  room,  and  her 
merry  laugh  echoed  through  the  long  corridors 
of  the  Castle  de  Rille. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  marquise,  accom- 
panying her  guests  as  they  separated  for  the 
night ;  "  the  good  seed  is  sown,  and  the  soil  is 
not  too  bad." 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE    DRAMA    OF    SIX    PERIWIGS. 

SEVERAL  days  after  the  scene  just  related, 
Louis  de  Nolongue  sat  smoking  and  chatting 
with  his  cousin  Robert  de  Salemberry  on  the 
terrace  of  the  pretty  little  cottage  that  Louis 
had  recently  built,  within  a  short  distance  of 
Rille.  He  had  a  talent  for  building,  and  fre- 
quently indulged  in  his  favorite  occupation  by 
constructing  in  various  places  small  castles  and 
country-houses,  of  which,  however,  he  soon 
grew  tired.  This  one,  called  Les  Chartrettes,  in 
memory  of  Gabrielle  d'  Estree,  did  honor  to  his 
taste  and  architectural  knowledge.  It  was  a 
perfect  little  jewel-case,  a  nest  for  a  bride  and 
groom;  and  lacked  nothing  but  the  pink  arid 
white  gowns  fluttering  in  and  out  of  the  paths 
in  the  little  park  that  ran  down  to  the  bank  of 
the  Lathan,  the  only  river  in  this,  it  must  be 
admitted,  rather  arid  country. 

The  thought  of  what  it  lacked,  doubtless, 
23 


24  THE  DRAMA    OF  SIX  PERIWIGS. 

occurred  to  Louis  de  Nolongue,  for  he  said  to 
his  cousin : 

"  I  am  very  proud  of  my  little  house,  but  it 
is  very  lonely  here." 

"  That  sigh  is  for  the  sprightly  Poncette,  is 
it  not  ?" 

"You  know  well  it  is." 

"  Everybody  knows  it,  and  no  one  better  than 
she. " 

"  Oh,  my  friend,  how  can  they  be  so  beautiful, 
and  yet  so  cruel  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  those  qualities  go  together." 

"  She  not  only  does  not  love  me,  but  she 
ridicules  me  with  a  spitefulness  that  rends  my 
heart." 

"  But  she  has  not,  at  least,  within  the  last 
few  days." 

11  That  is  because  of  '  The  Game  of  Virtues,' 
in  which  she  is  determined  not  to  lose  too  much. 
But  the  term  expires  in  about  twelve  days ;  then 
she  will  take  her  revenge,  and  I  know  I  shall 
pay  for  the  past  with  usury. " 

"  It  will  be  your  own  fault  then,  my  dear 
Louis." 

"Why  so?" 


THE  DRAMA    OF  SIX  PERIWIGS.  25 

"  You  make  such  a  feeble  defence.  You  do 
not  even  try  to  defend  yourself.  You  submit 
to  be  trampled  upon  by  this  scoffer,  instead  of 
answering  her  in  the  same  vein ;  yet  you  are  no 
simpleton." 

"  Answer  her !  I  contend  with  her !  I  would 
rather  attack  a  wild  boar  with  a  parlor-pis- 
tol." 

"  You  are  mistaken ;  by  taking  fair,  direct 
aim,  the  smallest  ball  may  be  sent  straight  to 
the  heart." 

"  I  doubt  very  much  if  she  even  has  a 
heart." 

"  A  woman  always  has ;  it  is  for  us  to  touch 
it." 

"  That  is  easy  enough  for  you,  thanks  to  your 
refined  masculine  beauty,  your  intellect,  reputa- 
tion, and  genius." 

"  Do  not  speak  of  my  genius  !" 

"  But  every  one  speaks  of  it." 

"  If  it  is  spoken  of  a  hundred  years  hence,  I 
might  tell  you  if  there  was  reason  for  it,"  re- 
plied de  Salem  berry,  smiling.  "  Let  us  talk  of 
your  affairs ;  that  is  better.  I  repeat  you  are 
too  timid  with  this  malicious  Poncette.  I'll 


26  THE  DRAMA    OF  SIX  PERIWIGS. 

wager  you  have  not  told  her  that  you  love 
her." 

"  I  asked  her  hand  through  Madame  de 
Rille." 

"  You  ought  to  ask  her  yourself." 

"  That  would  be  suicide. " 

"No,  a  duel." 

"  With  very  unequal  weapons  !" 

"  One  never  knows.  Well,  promise  me  one 
thing,  my  dear  Louis :  Poncette  is  coming  with 
the  other  ladies  to  visit  your  country-seat;  if 
she  attacks  you,  promise  me  to  defend  your- 
self." 

"I'll  try." 

"  Courage,  then,  courage  !" 

"  You  are  right,  Robert ;  I  will  be  coura- 
geous." 

"  Good  !  well,  here  they  come ;  be  brave !" 

"Yes,  yes;  I  begin  to  tremble  already." 

Poncette  arrived  a  little  in  advance  of  Ma- 
dame de  Rille,  who  was  accompanied  by  a  num- 
ber of  young  ladies  of  the  neighborhood.  Louis 
went  forward  to  meet  her  with  that  refined 
grace  of  which  even  his  timidity  could  not  rob 
him.  The  ladies  had  walked  through  the  fields 


THE  DRAMA    OF  SIX  PERIWIGS.  2? 

following  the  river,  which  flows  clear  and  lim- 
pid under  the  tall  willows,  from  the  woods  of 
Champ-chevrier. 

Nothing  affects  the  mind  and  soul  more 
agreeably  than  a  walk  on  a  bright,  sunny  day 
in  the  midst  of  the  mysterious  joys  of  nature, 
which  awaken  similar  secret  joys  in  mind  and 
soul ;  a  gentle  grace  seems  to  rain  upon  us  from 
heaven ;  and  if  we  meet  a  friend  at  the  end  of 
the  road,  the  mutual  greeting  is  apt  to  be  both 
gracious  and  cordial.  The  meeting  between 
Louis  and  his  charming  visitors  on  this  occa- 
sion was  most  cordial  and  animated.  None  of 
the  ladies  had  yet  seen  Les  Chartrettes ;  for,  as 
the  poet  refuses  to  read  his  poems  in  fragments, 
so  Louis'  self-love  prevented  his  exhibiting  his 
work  until  entirely  completed.  Great  was  the 
enthusiastic  admiration  expressed  by  the  ladies 
at  sight  of  the  little  castle. 

"  It  is  a  Swiss  chalet,"  said  the  marquise. 

"  Larger  than  those  at  Interlaken,  fortu- 
nately," added  Poncette,  clapping  her  hands  ; 
"shall  we  hear  the  ' Ranz  des  Vaches,1  cou- 
sin?" 

"Alas!  no." 


28  THE  DRAMA    OF  SIX  PERIWIGS. 

"  I'll  play  it  for  you  on  the  piano,  if  there 
is  one." 

"  Yes,  by  all  means." 

M.  de  Nolongue,  followed  by  the  ladies,  as- 
cended the  steps  of  the  castle,  and,  opening  the 
door,  entered  the  vestibule,  the  walls  of  which 
were  profusely  ornamented  with  some  thirty 
stag-horns. 

At  sight  of  all  these  cynegetic  trophies, 
Poncette,  looking  at  the  master  of  the  house, 
exclaimed  :  "  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  " 

M.  de  Nolongue  shuddered,  but,  as  Poncette 
confined  herself  to  these  three  exclamations,  he 
breathed  freely  and  led  the  way  to  the  dining- 
room,  where  luncheon  was  served.  The  ladies 
did  honor  to  the  delicious  cream  and  luscious 
peaches  offered  them,  and  moistened  their  lips 
in  cups  of  foaming  Vouvray,  the  native  wine 
of  Touraine  and  Anjou.  Poncette,  raising  her 
glass,  said,  graciously : 

"  To  our  good  and  loyal  friend,  the  host  of 
Les  Chartrettes !  " 

The  host,  much  flattered,  returned  thanks 
with  emotion. 

"  Now,"  resumed  Poncette,  "  my  dear  cousin, 


THE    DRAMA    OF  SIX  PERIWIGS.  29 

you  must  gratify  our  curiosity  by  showing  us 
every  part  of  the  castle." 

Louis  did  not  wait  to  be  asked  a  second  time, 
but  threw  open  all  the  doors,  and  the  guests  ad- 
mired the  elegance  of  the  drawing-room,  the 
comfortable  smoking-room,  which  also  served 
as  a  library,  and  the  billiard-room  with  its  se- 
vere luxury,  also  several  bedrooms  on  the  first 
floor,  apparently  awaiting  numerous  guests. 

Having  sufficiently  admired  everything,  they 
returned  to  the  drawing-room,  but  Poncette 
lingered  behind,  standing  motionless  before  the 
only  door  that  M.  de  Nolongue  had  not  opened. 

She  remembered  that  Louis  at  this  point  had 
turned  aside  and  showed  unusual  eagerness  to 
lead  his  visitors  quickly  past  this  door,  which 
had  neither  lock  nor  key,  nor  the  slightest  indi- 
cation of  any  kind  of  knob.  This  puzzled  Pon- 
cette, and  she  began  to  examine  the  mysterious 
door.  "Could  it  be  a  blind  door?  "  she  asked 
herself ;  no,  for  a  ray  of  light  underneath  showed 
that  there  was  a  window  opposite  on  the  inside. 
By  close  scrutiny,  Poncette  discovered,  not  on 
the  door  itself,  but  at  one  side,  hidden  in  a 
groove  of  the  wainscoting,  a  small  metal  disc. 


3°  THE  DRAMA    OF  SIX  PERIWIGS. 

She  immediately  recalled  having  noticed  in  her 
cousin's  room  a  small  copper  key  in  a  little 
onyx  cup.  Poncette  was  naturally  curious ;  on 
this  occasion  she  was  very  indiscreet.  Without 
a  moment's  reflection,  she  tripped  lightly  into 
Louis'  room,  and  returned  with  the  key  in  ques- 
tion. "This  must  be  it,"  she  said  to  herself, 
and  quickly  applied  the  key  to  the  small  disc. 
The  door  flew  open,  and  Poncette  was  convulsed 
with  laughter,  for  this  was  what  she  saw : 

On  six  knobs,  or  rather  pegs,  fastened  to  the 
wall,  were  spread  out  six  blond  periwigs,  frizzed 
and  curled  exactly  alike. 

"  Louis  is  wearing  the  seventh,"  exclaimed 
Poncette ;  "  one  for  every  day  in  the  week,  and 
no  one  suspected  it."  The  periwigs  were  per- 
fect marvels.  Poncette  was  again  seized  with 
a  fit  of  nervous  laughter,  but  stopped  suddenly, 
for  Louis  de  Nolongue  had  just  entered  the 
room.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  his  pale 
face  betraying  great  agitation,  and  approached 
his  cousin  trembling.  He  feared  that  this  dis- 
covery had  ruined  all  his  hopes,  but,  remember- 
ing Robert's  advice,  he  thought  that  all  might 
yet  be  gained. 


THE  DRAMA    OF  SIX  PERIWIGS.  31 

"  Very  well, "  said  he,  in  a  suppressed  tone  of 
voice ;  "  yes,  laugh,  cousin,  laugh  at  me ;  it  is 
true  I  have  this  misfortune,  I  am  guilty  of  this 
folly;  I  am  bald  as  Csesar,  and  I  try  to  con- 
ceal it.  I  am  absurd;  you  may  laugh.  I 
thought  I  had  taken  every  precaution  to  pre- 
vent discovery,  and  you  will  laugh  still  more 
at  this :  I  had  them  secretly  brought  from 
England,  and  believed  no  one  would  know  any- 
thing about  it.  Now  everybody  will  know  it, 
for  you  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  telling, 
and  I  shall  be  more  ridiculous  than  ever.  But 
you  will  be  happy ;  yes,  very  happy ;  you  are  so 
malicious.  I  know  you;  go!  No,  I  am  wrong; 
I  insult  you  by  speaking  thus.  Forgive  me; 
pardon  me ! "  Louis  fell  on  his  knees  before 
Poncette  and  seized  both  her  hands. 

"Rise,  cousin;   I  forgive  you." 

"  No,  cousin ;  I  do  not  deserve  to  be  for- 
given. I  have  something  more  still  to  re- 
proach myself  with,  and  you  will  have  very 
good  reason  to  laugh  this  time.  But  I  will  tell 
you  all.  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you ! 
madly,  foolishly;  but  I  love  you.  But  what 
matters  it  ?  I  have  suffered  so  much  already,  I 


32  THE  DRAMA    OF  SIX  PERIWIGS. 

can  suffer  still  more.  Ah,  if  you  knew  how 
your  ridicule  and  disdain  are  killing  me ;  but  I 
love  you  despite  it  all.  I  love  you  tenderly; 
and  why  ?  Perhaps  because  you  also  have  suf- 
fered; and  I  sometimes  hope  that  of  our  two 
sorrows  we  might  perhaps  make  one  happiness. 
Yes,  it  is  absurd;  I  know  it;  but  I  have  dreamed 
of  it ;  and  see,  I  weep  like  a  child  at  the  thought 
that  this  dream  has  vanished  forever.  All  is 
over  for  me ;  you  have  thought  me  ridiculous, 
now  you  will  consider  me  grotesque.  Never- 
theless, Poncette,  I  love  you  from  the  very 
depths  of  my  soul.  Put  no  restraint  upon  your- 
self ;  laugh,  and  make  others  laugh  at  my  ex- 
pense. Tell  all  that  you  have  just  discovered; 
do  not  spare  me,  be  more  malicious  than  ever; 
betray  my  absurd  secret ;  have  no  remorse ;  be- 
tray me ! " 

"  Cousin,"  replied  Poncette,  "  I  am  an  honest 
woman,  and  would  not  betray  my  husband." 

A  fortnight  after  this  incident,  Madame  Marie 
Poncette  Morel  married  the  Baron  Louis  de 
Nolongue. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

A  PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE. 

THE  day  after  this  marriage,  which  was  cele- 
brated with  great  pomp,  the  Marquise  de  Rille 
brought  together  at  a  wedding-feast  the  char- 
acters whom  we  have  already  met  at  her  house 
during  that  memorable  rainy  week  that  inter- 
fered with  the  pleasures  of  the  chase.  Dinner 
was  finished  just  at  nightfall,  and  the  marquise 
addressed  the  company  thus  : 

"  My  dear  children,"  said  she,  smiling  with  a 
certain  degree  of  pride,  "  you  are  all  convinced, 
by  a  notable  example,  of  the  efficacy  of  '  The 
Game  of  Virtues.'  Do  you  not  think  so, 
Madame  de  Nolongue  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Poncette,  with  a  slight 
blush. 

"  Then  let  us  continue  this  very  useful  experi- 
ment. It  is  now  my  nephew  Robert  de  Salem- 
berry's  turn.  You  know  the  game  allotted  to 
him  a  virtue  difficult  enough  to  practise:  to 
3  33 


34  A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE. 

repair  the  injury  that  has  been  done.  From 
this  moment  he  ought  to  study  this  command 
seriously  and  practise  it  conscientiously.  Begin, 
then,  my  dear  nephew,  without  delay.  We  have 
given  you  a  fortnight's  respite;  you  have  had 
time  to  reflect  and  to  prepare  your  weapons  for 
this  conflict  with  yourself." 

"  But,  my  dear  aunt,  I  told  you  two  weeks 
ago  that  I  have  nothing  to  repair,  never  having 
done  an  injury  to  anybody." 

Madame  de  Rille  looked  Robert  full  in  the 
face  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then  said, 
deliberately : 

"  Stephen  de  Fleurigny." 

"  Oh  !  as  to  that, "  replied  Robert,  petulantly, 
"  you  know  well  that  I  was  in  the  right." 

"  So  you  say,  my  dear  nephew,  but  one  is  apt 
to  be  a  bad  judge  of  his  own  case.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  go,  smoke  your  cigar  in  the  park, 
and  examine  your  conscience.  Go,  my  dear 
poet,  go ! " 

"  With  pleasure,  my  dear  aunt,  but  my  exami- 
nation of  conscience  is  already  made." 

"  Make  it  again." 

"  May  I  take  Louis  with  me?  " 


A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE.  35 

"  What !  separate  a  bride  and  groom  of  yes- 
terday? No,  indeed.  Moreover,  Louis'  pres- 
ence might  interfere  with  your  remorse,  if  you 
have  any." 

"  I  shall  not  have  any,  my  dear  aunt." 

"  Go  and  see,  my  dear." 

Let  us  follow  Robert  in  his  solitary  walk,  and 
profit  by  it  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
the  man  who  is  to  be  the  principal  character  in 
our  story. 

While  walking  under  the  tall  trees,  gently 
stirred  by  the  evening  breeze,  many  memories 
involuntarily  arose  in  the  young  man's  mind. 
One  of  the  most  apparent  and  curious  facts, 
phenomena,  if  you  wish,  of  our  epoch,  in 
which  there  is  so  much  that  is  curious,  is  cer- 
tainly the  importance  that  writers  have  ac- 
quired. If  there  is  a  class  of  men  who  have 
profited  largely  by  the  extension  of  modern  lib- 
erty, it  is  the  class  of  great  literary  men,  and 
sometimes  even  those  of  lesser  merit.  He  who 
first  made  use  of  the  term,  "kings  of  thought," 
employed  an  ambitious,  perhaps,  but  a  perfectly 
true  expression.  They  are,  in  fact,  veritable 
kings;  they  have  their  court  of  enthusiastic 


36  A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE. 

admirers,  thurifers,  chamberlains,  chroniclers, 
historiographers.  Like  kings,  they  have  their 
budget,  for  glory  and  reputation  are  of  little 
value  in  these  days  without  riches.  The  press, 
romance,  the  theatre,  all  enrich  genius,  and  even 
simple  talent,  and  the  rights  of  the  author  have 
become  as  obvious  a  truth  as,  at  least,  many  of 
the  political  charters.  Against  this  royalty,  de- 
fended by  the  formidable  army  of  public  opin- 
ion, nothing  avails.  While  public  opinion  is 
with  them,  famous  writers  have  nothing  to  fear; 
struggles,  hatred,  injustice,  calumnies,  prosecu- 
tion and  exile  but  add  to  their  strength,  by 
multiplying  the  echoes  that  repeat  their  name 
to  all  people  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

This  royalty,  like  the  others,  falls  or  perishes 
only  by  its  own  faults. 

What,  then,  are  these  faults  ? 

Rather  would  we  break  the  pen  that  writes 
these  lines,  than  ever  diminish,  outrage — above 
all,  grieve  these  masters,  these  sovereigns  of 
human  thought.  But  truth  is  not  an  outrage, 
to  measure  is  not  to  diminish ;  and  it  is  per- 
mitted to  do  in  the  literary  order  as  our  fathers 
did  in  the  political  order:  to  write  at  the  head 


A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE.  37 

of  a  book  these  bold  but  respectful  words, 
"  Remonstrance  to  the  King." 

This  said,  let  us  state  and  designate  the  rock 
upon  which  this  literary  royalty  is  apt  to  run. 
It  is  pride.  Why  should  not  the  souls  of  these 
public  favorites  be  imbued  with  pride  ?  A  man 
must  needs  possess  very  superior  virtue  to  re- 
main modest  in  the  midst  of  this  concert  of 
eulogy,  adulation,  and  hyperbole,  and  not  be 
intoxicated  by  the  captivating  perfume  of  all 
the  censers  swung  before  him.  As  long  as  this 
pride  is  gratified,  it  is  easy  for  him  to  appear 
smiling  and  amiable  in  his  gold  and  azure  nim- 
bus. If  he  is  wounded,  he  suddenly  becomes 
terrible.  Such  was  the  case  with  our  hero. 

Robert  de  Salemberry  seemed  to  have  been 
born  under  the  luckiest  star.  Descended  from 
an  ancient,  noble  family  of  Navarre,  rich,  hand- 
some, possessed  of  brilliant  intellect  and  calm 
temperament,  he  realized  to  a  wonderful  degree 
Auguste  Barbier's  description  of  the  type  of  the 
"artist  with  tranquil  brow  and  hands  of  fire." 
Robert  had  but  to  enter  the  world  to  win  it. 
At  twenty  he  made  his  debut  in  a  poem  as 
strange  as  its  title  :  "'  All  the  Tombs."  It  was 


38  A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE. 

a  medley  of  epopee,  elegy,  lyrics,  philosophy, 
and  romance;  at  times  melancholy,  then  sud- 
denly gay;  abounding  in  faults  of  taste,  au- 
dacious theories,  inflammable  ideas,  excessive 
sentiment ;  but  such  power  and  strength  were 
apparent  through  the  entire  poem  that  a  critic 
wrote  of  it,  "  There  lurks  a  lion  in  this  thicket," 
which  described  it  well.  The  poem  was  signed 
simply  with  the  name  Salemberry,  the  author 
believing  that  this  sonorous,  mysterious  name 
was  made  for  fame ;  and  he  was  not  mistaken. 
It  won  renown,  restricted  as  yet  to  a  circle  of 
literary  men.  But  Salemberry  wanted  some- 
thing better  than  this — great  public  celebrity — 
and  he  acquired  it  through  romance  and  the 
drama. 

Salem  berry's  novels  were  no  less  faulty  than 
his  first  poem,  but  they  were  happy  faults;  too 
many  details  and  descriptions,  too  much  useless 
analysis  and  subtlety,  too  much  brushwood, 
as  in  the  poem ;  but  here,  also,  the  presence  of 
the  lion  was  felt. 

It  was  to  the  theatre  especially  that  Salem- 
berry owed  his  celebrity.  He  was  born  for 
the  drama;  comedy  and  g'rand  tragedy  flowed 


A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE.  39 

in  his  veins.  Even  in  his  comedies  the  tragic 
author  was  revealed.  His  plays  met  with 
brilliant  success,  and  the  poet  tasted  the 
inebriating  joys  of  a  daily  renewed  popular- 
ity. Strangely  enough,  after  a  brief  period  of 
vertigo,  Salemberry  himself  recognized  what  his 
talent  lacked.  When  his  more  or  less  sincere 
flatterers  exclaimed,  "  Admirable  !  sublime  ! 
splendid !  a  masterpiece !"  the  poet  said  to 
himself :  "  No,  no  !  I  have  not  achieved  a  mas- 
terpiece yet,  but  I  will  accomplish  one,  and 
soon." 

An  unexpected  event  prevented  him,  at  least 
for  a  time,  from  carrying  out  his  laudable  design. 

A  small  newspaper,  called  TJie  Viper,  had 
recently  been  started,  and  it  did  not  belie  its 
name.  Its  self-imposed  mission  consisted  in 
stinging  all  who  came  within  its  reach. 
Whether  this  was  done  through  pure  malice,  or 
for  revenge  or  pleasure,  was  unknown,  but  the 
fact  that  it  would  sting  was  evident.  When  a 
man  was  strong  and  healthy  these  stings  were 
easily  cured — a  few  drops  of  alkali  sufficed. 
Nevertheless,  the  memory  of  them  remained, 
and  also  the  fear  of  other  and  more  serious 


40  A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE. 

bites ;  for,  despite  the  proverb,  "  Kill  the 
beast,"  the  poison  is  not  eradicated. 

The  Viper  one  fine  day  stung  our,  up  to  that 
time,  triumphant  and  indemnified  hero.  An 
anonymous  article  attacked  de  Salemberry's 
talent,  and  spoke  rather  slightingly  even  of 
his  character.  But  there  was  nothing  out- 
rageous in  it  for  which  he  could  demand  an 
account ;  the  critic  adroitly  mingled  eulogy 
with  appreciation  of  the  celebrated  poet's 
works,  and  concluded  with  these  words :  "  To 
those  who  will  say  his  style  is  very  dull,  we 
would  simply  answer :  Yes,  but  dulness  from 
above." 

Salemberry  was  accustomed  to  much  less 
acidulated  praise ;  he  knew  well  that  if  this 
trenchant  remark  should  spread  and  obtain 
credence,  he  would  soon  be  classed  among  the 
most  solemn  and  soporific  pontiffs ;  a  flattering 
pontificate,  but  scarcely  to  be  envied.  Salem- 
berry could,  however,  have  easily  overlooked 
this  disagreeable  flattery,  considering  the  criti- 
cism unjust  and  untrue,  as  it  really  was;  but 
The  Viper  contained  something  more — this  per- 
fidious quotation  :  "  The  duchess  pears  are  not 


A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  KEVENGE.  41 

the  least  tender  /"  This  was  an  allusion  to  an 
event  in  the  private  life  of  our  hero.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  said  in  the  matter ;  he  could 
make  no  defence ;  the  remedy  would  have  been 
worse  than  the  evil.  He  wondered  who  could 
be  the  author  of  the  article,  but  was  unsuccess- 
ful in  his  efforts  to  discover.  He  was  not  aware 
that  he  had  any  enemies,  and  believed  that  his 
most  intimate  friends  were  ignorant  of  this  se- 
cret of  his  early  life.  Moreover,  the  affair  to 
which  this  phrase  referred  was  now  a  thing  of 
the  past.  His  efforts  to  discover  the  author 
of  this  malicious  attack  were  all  the  more  fruit- 
less owing  to  the  need  of  the  great  discretion 
to  be  used  in  the  search. 

But  the  article  in  The  Viper  went  farther 
than  Salemberry  supposed.  One  evening  in 
the  foyer  of  the  theatre  he  had  a  box  of  can- 
died fruit  which  he  offered  to  those  about  him. 
As  he  handed  the  box  to  a  celebrated  soubrette, 
he  said  gallantly : 

"  The  apple  for  you,  as  the  most  beautiful." 

"The  pear  for  you,"  she  replied  archly. 

Salemberry  blushed  slightly,  and  she,  per- 
ceiving it,  added : 


42  A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE. 

"  Shall  I  be  indiscreet,  my  dear,  if  I  tell  you 
the  author  of  that  article?  But  you  know  it 
perfectly  well." 

"  No,  I  assure  you,  I  do  not." 

"  Play  the  innocent !  It  is  the  secret  of 
Europe  and  America." 

"The  name,  I  beg  of  you." 

"  Stephen  de  Fleurigny." 

"Nonsenfe!  that  is  absurd;  he  is  my  most 
intimate  friend." 

"  Oh,  very  well  then." 

"  My  dear  child,  you  may  say  to  Europe 
and  America  that  it  is  the  most  unqualified 
calumny." 

"  Very  generous  of  you,  my  great  poet !  " 

Salemberry  made  no  further  reply,  and  went 
away  indignant,  but  thoughtful. 

He  had  known  Stephen  from  early  youth, 
and  considered  him  his  most  faithful  and  de- 
voted friend.  They  met  first  at  Rill£,  where 
Stephen  lived  with  his  mother  and  his  little 
sister,  Gilberte.  As  boys  they  attended  the 
same  college,  and  later  continued  their  studies 
together  at  the  same  English  university.  In 
1870  they  enlisted  in  the  same  regiment  of 


A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE.  43 

Zouaves,  and,  finally,  the  similarity  of  their 
tastes  in  poetry  and  the  arts  united  them  still 
more  closely. 

Aside  from  this,  their  natures  were  absolutely 
different :  Robert  was  the  lion,  as  described  by 
the  critic  of  whom  we  have  already  spoken; 
Stephen  was  the  gazelle. 

Stephen  de  Fleurigny,  with  his  fair  hair,  deep 
blue  eyes,  calm  pale  face,  handsome  figure,  and 
hands  of  a  prelate,  seemed  a  living  image  of 
refined  religious  poetry.  Among  the  poets  of 
a  generation  that  numbers  many  great  and  noble 
ones,  Stephen  held  a  place  apart.  His  strong, 
clear  odes  had  the  grace  of  the  Lombardy  pop- 
lar, that  murmurs  so  softly  in  the  breeze.  He 
wrote  tender  elegies,  that  all  the  women  knew 
by  heart  like  their  mother  tongue.  His  mar- 
vellously chaste  sonnets  resembled  those  Greek 
figures  which  seem  to  stretch  forth  their  arms 
but  to  offer  flowers  in  marble  and  alabaster 
urns.  Stephen's  fame  was  neither  pronounced 
nor  widespread,  but  he  had  discreet  and  faith- 
fully devoted  admirers.  It  was  not  the  ocean 
with  its  tempests  and  broad  horizon,  but  a  lake 
peacefully  sheltered  by  green  hills,  and  skimmed 


44  A    PLA  Y WRIGH T' S  RE  VENGE. 

by  fleet  skiffs  in  which  lovers  sang  while  con- 
templating the  twinkling  stars.  Stephen  was 
satisfied  with  this  quiet  fame,  and  was  loved  all 
the  more  in  the  susceptible  world  in  which  he 
lived,  that  he  sought  neither  the  trumpeted  suc- 
cess nor  the  material  profit  of  a  literary  life. 

Robert  de  Salemberry  thought  of  all  this  on 
leaving  the  theatre ;  the  accusation  made  against 
his  friend  had  wounded  him  like  a  dagger- thrust. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  said  he  aloud,  regardless 
of  the  passers-by ;  "  it  is  impossible  !  The  world 
is  decidedly  base  and  cowardly  to  listen  to  and 
believe  such  monstrous  things ;  I  will  not  even 
think  of  it." 

On  reaching  home  Robert  opened  his  desk, 
and  taking  out  a  package  of  Stephen's  letters 
began  to  read  them  over.  Stephen  spoke  rarely 
of  himself  in  the  letters,  always  of  his  friend, 
and  in  the  most  tenderly  affectionate  and  broth- 
erly manner,  mingling  with  the  wisest  counsels 
the  profoundest  esteem  and  admiration.  He 
applauded  each  success  achieved  by  Salemberry, 
and  sounded  his  praises  far  and  near  with  almost 
childlike  pleasure. 

"  What  a  valiant  heart,"  said  Robert  to  him- 


A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE.  45 

self,  as  he  read.  "  And  this  is  the  man  they 
accuse.  If  I  ever  discover  the  propagator  of 
this  servants'  gossip,  I  shall  lengthen  his  ears, 
the  better  to  cut  them  off." 

The  concluding  sentence  of  one  of  the  letters 
attracted  Robert's  attention  for  some  time  : 

"My  dear  chum,"  wrote  Stephen,  "now  that 
I  have  seriously  lectured  you  on  your  poetry  and 
prose,  let  me  give  you  a  bit  of  advice  :  be  wiser 
than  Solomon  and  David ;  and  if  you  have  any 
secrets  other  than  poetical  ones,  do  not  confide 
them  to  me,  for  you  know  I  am  very  puri- 
tanical. Adieu,  great  brother,  until  we  meet 
again." 

Robert  examined  carefully  the  date  of  this 
letter:  October  17,  1872. 

"  This  is  strange,"  thought  he ;  "  the  date  coin- 
cides with  that  on  which  I  committed  my  great- 
est folly.  But  Stephen  knew  nothing  of  it, 
nor  did  anybody  else.  If  any  one  knew  it,  it 
was  very  evidently  the  editor  of  The  Viper. 
Chance  has  served  the  rascal  well ;  chance  being 
often  a  rascal  himself." 

Robert  continued  and  finished  the  reading  of 
the  letters  with  ever-increasing  emotion. 


46  A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE. 

"  O  earth !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  finished 
them,  "  a  great  poet  had  good  reason  to  call  you 
the  throne  of  folly !  I  would  add,  throne  of 
calumny.  Stephen  is  an  angel  of  friend- 
ship." 

Though  Robert  went  to  bed  and  slept  on  this 
good  thought,  he  was  suddenly  awakened  by  a 
feeling  of  sharp  pain — having  dreamed  that  a 
viper  had  stung  him  to  the  heart,  and  that 
a  voice  called  to  him,  "  It  is  Stephen !" 

Robert  could  sleep  no  longer,  and  spent  the 
long  hours  in  thoughtful  introspection;  the 
habit  of  analysis  that  served  him  so  well  in 
writing  a  drama  or  romance  clung  to  him  when 
he  wished  to  study  himself.  He  began  to  rec- 
ognize with  despair  that  a  suspicion  was  insen- 
sibly creeping  into  his  heart,  and  thrust  it  aside 
as  he  would  brush  away  a  buzzing  fly ;  but  the 
importunate  insect  always  returned. 

"What  creatures  we  are!"  he  exclaimed; 
"that  was  a  wicked  thought  I  had  just  now." 

The  dawn  of  a  bright  day  restored  his  equa- 
nimity. 

"  What  the  deuce  did  I  dream  last  night  ?" 

He  went  at  an  early  hour  to  breakfast  with 


A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE.  47 

Stephen,  who  received  him  as  usual,  cordially 
and  pleasantly. 

"It  has  rained  for  a  week;  I  have  need  of 
light ;  enter,  young  sun. " 

"The  sun  is  old,  Stephen." 

"  It  may  be  at  eight  in  the  evening,  but  not 
at  eight  in  the  morning ;  it  is  only  ten  now. 
Rise  and  adorn  with  your  rays  the  omelette 
with  truffles  that  Mistress  Tempete,  my  excel- 
lent cook,  is  making  in  your  honor." 

"  Always  a  gourmand,  Stephen. " 

"Yes,  Robert;  like  Andre  Doria's  cat,  a 
gourmand,  and  always  faithful. " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  Andre  Doria's  cat 
was  faithful  and  a  gourmand  ?  " 

"  I  guessed  it  while  looking  at  the  portrait  of 
Andre  Doria  and  his  cat  in  the  palace  of  Genoa. 
I  am  thinking  seriously  of  writing  a  sonnet  on 
this  historical  discovery,  and  of  dedicating  it  to 
you. " 

As  they  went  into  the  dining-room,  Stephen, 
noticing  that  Robert  seemed  depressed,  and 
wishing  to  divert  him,  continued  while  they 
enjoyed  the  truffle-omelette : 

"  Do  you  know,  Robert,  there  is  something 


48  A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE. 

lacking  in  modern  poetry?  We  have  had,  or 
have,  Lamartine,  Victor  Hugo,  Alfred  de  Mus- 
set,  Auguste  Barbier,  Coppee,  Sully-Prudhomme, 
Victor  de  Laprade,  Leconte  de  Lisle,  Eugene 
Manuel,  Louis  Bouilhet,  Soulary,  Salemberry, 
etc. ;  but  we  have  neither  Boileau  nor  Berchoux ; 
we  have  neither  satire  nor  gastronomy.  I  do 
not  aim  at  being  a  Boileau — I  leave  that  ambi- 
tion to  one  more  cruel ;  but  I  should  like  to  be 
a  Berchoux." 

"  Modesty  will  be  your  ruin,  Stephen." 

"  As  ambition  is  of  others ;  better  modesty, 
it  causes  less  suffering." 

"  If  you   say  that  for  my  benefit,  Stephen, 
you  are  quite  right ;  I  am  tormented  by  ambi- 
tion." 
-  "I  can  well  believe  it;  it  is  limitless." 

"  I  contemplate  writing  a  second  poem — mod- 
ern science,  the  great  works  and  great  inven- 
tions shall  be  the  theme." 

"  I  approve ;  and  seriously,  my  dear  Robert, 
that  is  your  vocation.  Os  magna  sonaturum — 
to  voice  great  things." 

"  Well,  after  breakfast  I  shall  give  you  a 
synopsis  of  my  poem." 


A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE.  49 

"Very  good;  Mistress  Tempete,  the  coffee, 
the  coffee,  quickly !" 

When  they  had  taken  their  coffee  in  the 
smoking-room,  Stephen,  installing  himself  in  a 
large  armchair,  and  rubbing  his  hands  like  a 
man  preparing  for  a  fray,  said,  with  his  sweet 
smile : 

"  Now,  friend  Robert,  we  are  going  to  de- 
molish that  little  poem.  Begin,  and  prepare 
to  be  very  modest,  for  I  propose  to  do  my  duty 
and  to  be  very  severe. " 

Robert  read  the  prologue  and  argument  of 
the  poem,  which  was  formed  on  a  grand  scale 
of  about  two  hundred  verses. 

When  he  had  finished  reading,  Stephen  re- 
mained a  moment  in  thoughtful  silence,  and 
then  said,  hesitatingly  at  first,  like  a  hunts- 
man beating  the  thicket,  but  soon  in  a  firmer 
tone: 

"  The  movement  is  certainly  very  fine,  the 
style  and  ideas  original,  and  there  are  some 
superb  verses ;  but  there  is  one  fault,  and  it  is 
a  serious  fault." 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  Robert,  a  little  aston- 
ished. 

4 


5°  A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE. 

"  It  is  this — a  fault  often  acquired  by  writ- 
ing for  the  theatre :  The  audience  seeing  the 
play  only  as  a  whole,  make  you  think  of  it 
only  in  that  aspect.  You  are  not  careful ;  you 
are  even  negligent  about  details;  you  are  sat- 
isfied with  the  first  word  that  occurs  to  you, 
provided  it  is  high-sounding  and  harmonious; 
finally,  you  do  not  put  in  the  fine  lines  with 
the  pencil,  old  fellow;  you  paint  with  the 
brush;  your  style  is  affected  and  influenced 
by  stage  scenery;  and  this  is  a  grave  fault." 

"  Ah  !  'I  paint  with  the  brush  ; '  that  is  very 
severe,  Stephen." 

"  It  is  the  truth." 

"  It  is  the  first  time  it  has  ever  been  said 
to  me." 

"And  I  tell  you  it,  that  it  may  be  .the 
last." 

"  Oh,  oh,  doctor!  " 

"  Doctor,  if  you  wish ;  believe  me,  the  doc- 
trine is  good.  The  great  masters •" 

"  Ah  !  if  you  speak  of  the  great  masters " 

"  It  would  be  an  insult  to  speak  of  lesser 
ones  in  connection  with  you. " 

"But,   by    Hercules!    my   good    Stephen,  a 


A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE.  51 

poem  is  not  a  sonnet ;  dabbling  in  paint  is  not 
very  brilliant  work;  and  Mieris  does  not,  per- 
haps, equal  Paul  Veronese. " 

"  Omit  the  perhaps.  Mieris  in  no  way  equals 
you.  Only  remember  that,  if  Veronese  was 
timid  at  times,  he  was  always  scientific,  and 
never  forgot  rhythm  and  harmony. " 

"  I  overlook  them,  then?  " 

"  You  despise  them ;  that  is  what  I  am  find- 
ing fault  with.  Read  the  poem  again,  verse  by 
verse,  and  I  shall  prove  it  to  you." 

"  We  must  postpone  that  for  some  other 
time,  my  dear  Stephen ;  I  have  an  appointment 
at  the  theatre." 

Robert  rose,  slightly  agitated,  and  extended 
his  hand  to  Stephen;  then  as  he  was  leaving 
said: 

"  By  the  way,  Stephen,  do  you  know  what 
they  say?  " 

"All  they  say?  That  must  be  a  great  deal." 

"  You  know  that  article  in  The  Viper  in 
which  I  was  so  badly  treated,  that  anonymous 
article?  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  It  is  said  that  you  wrote  it,  Stephen. " 


52  A    PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE. 

Stephen  laughed  outright  in  his  usual  frank 
manner,  but  Robert  did  not  even  smile. 

"  What !  you  laugh  at  this  ?  " 

"Why,  certainly." 

"  There  is  nothing  in  it  to  laugh  at,  however ; 
it  is  a  very  serious  thing." 

"  Serious — for  whom  ?  " 

"  For  you  and  for  me ;  and  I  demand  of 
you — 

"  You  demand  of  me — 

Stephen  grew  deathly  pale;  he  bit  his  lips, 
but  controlled  himself,  and  continued  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  emotion : 

"  You  ask  if  I  am  the  author?  " 

"  I  ask  you  to  deny  it. " 

The  blood  now  mounted  to  Stephen's  tem- 
ples ;  he  trembled  in  every  limb,  and  seizing 
a  rare,  fragile  vase  from  the  table  he  crushed 
it  in  his  hand;  then,  looking  his  friend  full  in 
the  face,  he  pointed  to  the  door : 

"  M.  de  Salemberry,  leave  my  house. " 

"  M.  Stephen  de  Fleurigny,  I  bid  you  good 
morning. " 

Robert  rose,  moved  slowly  toward  the  door, 
turned  and  met  Stephen's  cold  glance,  then, 


A   PLAYWRIGHT'S  REVENGE.  53 

bruskly  thrusting  aside  the  porter,  departed. 
He  returned  to  his  home  in  a  state  of  concen- 
trated rage  difficult  to  describe.  True,  he  suf- 
fered more  from  wounded  pride  than  wounded 
friendship. 

In  worldly  friendships,  but  especially  among 
literary  people,  there  is  always  one  who  rules, 
who  is  master,  and  often  despotic.  Between 
two  friends  equality  rarely  exists ;  the  gentler, 
the  better  nature,  yields,  voluntarily  or  uncon- 
sciously, to  the  will  of  the  other.  A  great  man 
is  not  a  friend  in  the  affection  he  shows,  and 
even  feels ;  there  is  a  latent  something  that 
seems  like  reward  for  services.  He  pays  for 
the  admiration  he  receives  by  a  smile  or  word, 
as  a  prince  bestows  honors  and  rank  upon  the 
brave  soldiers  who  fight  for  him.  What  the 
great  man  really  loves  is  the  servant  of  his  fame. 

Should  the  servant  for  an  instant  forget  his 
role,  the  friend,  the  haughty  master,  reminds 
him  of  it — at  first  gently,  but  soon  very  imperi- 
ously. But  if  the  servant  revolts,  if  the  head 
that  bowed  so  low,  and  was  supposed  to  be 
accustomed  to  the  shade,  should  suddenly  as- 
sert itself  and  claim  its  share  of  the  sun — as  if 


54  A    PLAYWRIGHTS  REVENGE. 

this  luminary  had  nothing  better  to  do  than  to 
shine  on  anything  obscure — this  would  be 
treachery,  the  crime  of  high  treason. 

Robert  de  Salemberry  had  all  the  pride  of  a 
great  man,  although  he  had  not  yet  achieved 
that  distinction ;  his  pride  cried  out  like  the 
lion  suddenly  wounded  at  night  by  the  hunter. 

"He  dared  not  deny  it!"  he  exclaimed; 
"  moreover,  he  could  not.  I  disconcerted  him  so 
by  my  direct  thrust  he  could  not  say  no.  The 
miserable,  perfidious  wretch !  He  has  always 
been  jealous  of  me  at  heart,  and  I  should  have 
seen  it  had  I  not  been  so  unsuspicious.  The 
advice  he  gave  me,  his  manner  of  criticising  my 
works  under  pretext  of  watching  over  my  fame, 
were  but  the  outpouring  of  his  jealousy  and 
envy.  It  was  so  like  him  to  use  that  ex- 
pression, 'You  paint  with  the  brush!'  Now 
that  I  think  of  it,  there  were  some  such 
words  in  that  infamous  article:  'Dulness  from 
above. '  It  takes  an  intimate  friend  to  polish 
that  sort  of  diamond,  to  stamp  aright  these 
aphorisms  which  are  afterward  circulated  in  the 
world  as  medals.  And  that  other  perfidious 
sentence:  'The  duchess'  pears  are  not  the  least 


A    PLA  Y  W RIG II T '  S  RE  VENGE.  .  5  5 

tender ! '  That  was  the  most  treacherous  of  all, 
and  if  I  had  the  right — but  I  have  no  cause  for 
a  duel.  Nevertheless,  the  wretch  must  be  pun- 
ished ;  and  I  shall  find  some  better  means  than  a 
sword-thrust.  This  pun  on  the  duchess  pears 
is  so  ridiculously  silly,  it  must  surely  have  been 
made  by  that  rosewater  poet,  that  sonnet -maker." 

Robert  contemptuously  repeated  these  words, 
"  Sonnet-maker,  sonnet-maker !  "  then  suddenly 
burst  into  a  strident  laugh  that  was  almost  sav- 
age in  its  bitterness ;  but  his  fierce  gayety  soon 
changed  into  a  pensive  mood. 

That  same  evening  Robert  de  Salem  berry 
called  on  Jacques  Alengon,  the  manager  of  one 
of  the  large  theatres. 

"  Reserve  the  month  of  October  for  me,"  said 
Robert ;  "  I  shall  have  a  five-act  play  for  you. " 

The  manager  answered  with  his  blandest 
smile. 

The  next  day  Robert  started  for  Switzerland. 
Three  months  later  he  read  his  five-act  play 
to  the  manager,  who  gave  his  opinion  thus : 
"  Bravo,  dear  master.  There  will  be  a  sensa- 
ation  in  Landerneau.  Seven  thousand  every 
evening,  and  a  hundred  performances. " 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  PICHEGRU  *    STRANGLED  !  " 

THE  rehearsals  lasted  only  a  month.  It 
was  a  prose  comedy,  entitled  "  The  Poisonous 
Fang " ;  this  was  all  the  public  knew  of  it. 
The  manager,  the  actors,  and  employees  of  the 
theatre,  and,  of  course,  the  author,  kept  the 
subject  and  details  of  the  play  a  most  pro- 
found secret.  But  a  few  discreet  comments 
artfully  spread  abroad  excited  public  curiosity. 
It  was  said  to  be  a  violent  attack  upon  a 
well-known  writer,  upon  whom  the  author 
of  "  The  Poisonous  Fang "  wished  to  take  re. 
venge. 

Nothing  more  was  known  of  the  play;  con- 
sequently, on  the  evening  of  the  first  perform- 
ance, the  audience,  while  waiting  for  the  cur- 
tain to  rise,  were  on  the  alert,  for  there  seemed 

*  Pichegru  was  a  French  general  who  conspired  against 
Bonaparte  ;  he  was  arrested,  but  before  his  trial  was  found 
dead  in  his  prison. 

56 


"PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!"  57 

to  be  a  smell  of  gunpowder  in  the  air.  All 
Paris  had  prepared  itself  for  this  occasion  as 
for  a  cruel  feast. 

Stephen,  to  whom  a  ticket  for  an  orchestra- 
chair  had  been  sent  according  to  custom,  was 
present  at  the  first  representation.  He  arrived 
in  Paris  the  previous  evening,  and  felt  that  he 
ought  not  to  absent  himself,  especially  as,  on 
account  of  their  quarrel,  he  had  not  seen  Rob- 
ert for  three  months. 

The  first  act  disappointed  the  evil  expecta- 
tions of  the  public.  It  was  simply  a  bright, 
gay  scene,  at  the  end  of  which  one  of  the  char- 
acters attracted  particular  attention,  although 
he  had  very  little  to  say  or  do ;  he  was  a  poet 
who  wrote  a  sonnet  in  an  album  and  withdrew 
in  silence. 

"  Look,  look !  How  much  that  character  re- 
sembles Stephen  de  Fleurigny,"  remarked  some 
of  the  spectators.  "  We  shall  see  later  what 
that  means. "  Between  the  acts  this  rumor  ob- 
tained credence,  and  the  curtain  rose  for  the 
second  time  on  a  sea  of  faces  showing  eager 
expectations  that  were  fully  realized.  The  au- 
thor unmasked  his  batteries  at  once.  It  was  a 


58  "PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!" 

simple  scene,  in  which  a  poet  read  a  sonnet  to 
a  pretty  woman. 

Why  will  comic  authors  take  every  occasion 
to  ridicule  the  writers  of  sonnets?  Why 
should  even  a  poor  sonnet  be  more  ridicu- 
lous than  a  bad  ode  or  elegy?  Boileau's  tren- 
chant verse,  "  A  Faultless  Sonnet,"  is,  in 
a  measure,  responsible  for  this.  Orontes  son- 
net in  Moliere's  "  Misanthrope "  is  still  more 
to  blame — to  say  nothing  of  Mascarille's — in 
decrying  this  difficult  style  of  poetry,  in  which 
equally  as  much  strength  as  grace  can  be  dis- 
played. But  certain  things,  like  certain  men, 
are  unfortunate.  The  fact  is,  in  spite  of  the 
clever  sonnet-writers  of  contemporary  literature, 
the  public  is  always  ready  to  laugh  when  a  son- 
net is  mentioned,  and  to  murmur  almost  invol- 
untarily, "  A  sonnet — it's  a  sonnet !  "  Robert  de 
Salemberry  knew  this  well,  and  he  had  distilled 
into  this  old  but  ever  new  scene  his  most 
subtle  poison.  It  called  forth  loud  bursts  of 
laughter  and  shouts  of  approval  from  the  audi- 
ence, the  women  taking  part  with  the  author 
against  the  character  represented.  Why  was 
this  ?  We  never  dared  think  that  French 


"PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!"  59 

women  at  times  seem  like  descendants  of  the 
implacable  Roman  Vestals;  first,  because  the 
Vestals  left  no  direct  posterity;  and  secondly, 
because  French  women  are  better  than  the 
Romans  of  all  ages.  Nevertheless,  it  dis- 
pleases a  French  woman  to  hear  a  ridiculous 
sonnet  addressed  to  one  of  her  sex.  She, 
doubtless,  says  to  herself,  "  Such  a  thing  might 
just  as  likely  happen  to  me  !  "  and  she  revenges 
herself  for  the  injury  which  is  not,  but  might 
be  done  to  her.  The  women,  therefore,  dis- 
played their  pearly  teeth  at  the  reading  of  the 
famous  sonnet.  By  this  time,  all  the  audience, 
even  those  who  did  not  know  Stephen,  recog- 
nized him  in  the  character  whom  they  all  con- 
demned. 

Success  was  assured ;  in  the  last  act  it  as- 
sumed extraordinary  proportions.  Poor  Stephen 
was  torn  to  pieces  like  a  martyr  in  the  arena. 
The  public  became  wild  at  sight  of  this  gladia- 
torial exploit.  Salemberry's  name  was  shouted 
amidst  loud  bravos  and  applause  as  the  cur- 
tain fell  on  this  work  of  vengeance. 

Stephen  passed  out  of  the  theatre  between 
two  lines  of  spectators,  who  watched  him  with 


60  "  PICHEGR  U  STRANGLED  !  " 

malicious  curiosity.  His  face  was  calm  and 
grave,  and  when  one  of  those  peculiar  friends 
with  which  one  is  sometimes  afflicted  asked 
him  what  he  thought  of  the  play,  he  answered 
in  a  tone  tinged  with  sadness : 

"  I  fear  Robert  may  be  led  by  this  suc- 
cess into  a  style  that  is  not  naturally  his ;  he  is 
made  for  much  nobler  things." 

Meanwhile,  Robert,  in  the  greenroom,  was 
receiving  congratulations,  hand-pressures,  and 
embraces,  with  an  indifference  which  astonished 
himself.  He  was  triumphant,  but  he  was  not 
happy;  the  revenge  of  gratified  pride  is  the 
most  melancholy  satisfaction.  Robert  held  his 
head  high,  but  to  a  close  observer  his  absent 
manner  and  clouded  brow  portrayed  a  feeling 
of  extreme  dejection. 

The  famous  actress  who  took  the  leading 
character  in  his  play,  Madame  Maria  Orfano, 
was  a  woman  of  rare  beauty  and  of  great  per- 
spicacity. She  noticed  the  dark  cloud  on  the 
poet's  brow,  and,  leading  him  aside,  said : 

"  My  dear  friend,  you  are  sad ;  I  am  myself. 
Although  I  only  did  my  duty  in  performing  my 
part  in  your  play,  yet  I  feel  quite  remorse- 


"PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!"  61 

ful.  Think  well  on  this :  you  are  sad ;  you 
have  forgotten  the  ancient  Cato's  maxim;  I 
read  it  this  morning  in  one  of  my  son's  school- 
books  :  "  'Friendship  ought  to  be  gradually  sev- 
ered, not  rent  asunder  ! '  " 

We  shall  meet  this  noble  actress  again  in  the 
course  of  this  story.  Robert  made  no  reply, 
and  left  the  theatre,  wishing  to  be  alone. 

About  two  in  the  morning,  two  men,  passing 
under  the  arcade  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  noticed 
a  man  walking  rapidly,  beating  the  air  with  his 
cane,  and  murmuring  between  his  teeth  in  a 
bitter  tone  these  enigmatical  words  :  "  Pichegru 
strangled !" 

One  of  the  men  said,  laughing  :  "  There  goes 
a  professor  of  history,  repeating  the  lesson  for 
to-morrow.  He  cannot  be  a  Bonapartist,  for 
he  decides  against  Bonaparte  in  this  obscure 
question. " 

The  triumphant  author  awoke  next  morning 
no  less  melancholy  than  on  the  previous  evening. 
The  morning  papers  brought  him  reports  of  his 
victory,  which  was  much  more  brilliant  than 
he  had  supposed.  In  one  of  the  accounts  he 
noticed  the  following : 


6s  "PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!" 

"  No  one  was  ignorant  of  the  real  name  of 
the  sonnet-writer  held  up  to  immortal  ridicule 
by  our  new  Moliere.  It  was  Stephen  de  Fleu- 
rigny,  but  lately  his  intimate  friend.  We  shall 
not  expatiate  on  the  causes  that  led  to  this 
breach  of  friendship." 

Then  the  author  of  the  article  proceeded  to 
enumerate  them  in  some  hundred  and  fifty 
lines. 

"This  is  exasperating!"  exclaimed  Robert; 
"  they  go  too  far.  Stephen's  offence  was  against 
me;  I  wished  to  call  him  to  order;  that  was 
sufficient.  It  is  unnecessary  now  to  make  a 
Trissotin*  of  me.  These  papers  always  go  too 
far." 

The  next  paper  he  took  up  defended  Stephen  : 

"  We  regret,"  remarked  the  critic,  "that  a 
noble-hearted,  talented  man  allowed  himself 
to  make  such  an  unjust  and  passionate  attack 
upon  an  old  friend,  who  is  himself  a  poet  of 
high  merit.  This  mars  the  work  which  has 
just  received  public  applause." 

"  This  is  ingenuous,"  exclaimed  Robert,  "  but 

*  The  name  of  a  conceited  and  by  no  means  brilliant  poet, 
in  Moliere's  "  Les  Femmes  Savantes." 


"PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!"  63 

it  is  the  purpose  of  the  play  that  this  gentleman 
criticises,  and  he  considers  me  unjust.  I  shall 
get  even  with  him  some  day.  If  Stephen  is 
likely  to  have  partisans,  then  I  have  not  suffi- 
ciently abused  him.  After  all,  I  have  only 
done  my  duty  in  defending  myself  and  punish- 
ing treachery;  for  he  is,  no  doubt,  the  author 
of  that  anonymous  article,  and  he  ought  to 
have  acknowledged  it.  What,  then,  is  there 
for  M.  Stephen  to  complain  of?  It  is  true 
he  was  ridiculed,  and  the  celebrity  he  gained 
thereby  he  owes  to  me.  The  proverb  is  true, 
'Ridicule  does  not  kill.'  I  know  people  who 
have  nothing  but  this  to  live  on." 

Robert  deceived  himself;  to  do  him  justice, 
he  was  ignorant  of  the  depth  and  extent  of  the 
injury  he  had  just  perpetrated.  If  he  could 
have  imagined  or  foreseen  the  fatal  conse- 
quences of  his  act,  his  revenge  would  certainly 
have  appeared  odious  to  him  and  he  would  have 
renounced  it. 

Stephen  had  been  for  several  years  in  love 
with  a  young  lady,  Mile.  Isabelle  d'Acerac, 
whose  father  was  one  of  the  glorious  heroes  of 
the  Franco-German  war.  The  general  would 


64  "PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!" 

have  much  preferred  a  soldier  instead  of  a  poet 
for  a  son-in-law,  but  Isabelle  was  of  a  different 
opinion.  Stephen's  Parisian  reputation,  his  rare 
talent,  the  delicacy  of  his  tender  poems,  and  the 
grace  of  his  timid  love  had  won  the  young  girl's 
heart.  Moreover,  she  unconsciously  took  pleas- 
ure in  the  idea  of  bearing  a  name  already  in- 
vested with  a  charm  and  renown  that  the  future 
would  augment.  She  had  visions  of  forming  a 
salon  where  the  illustrious  men  of  the  day  would 
assemble,  of  gathering  about  her  works  of  art, 
and  celebrities,  and,  perhaps,  of  giving  tone  to 
and  setting  the  fashion  in  the  literary  world. 
This  was  a  very  legitimate  and  pardonable  am- 
bition, and  one  which  did  not  denote  a  vulgar 
mind. 

General  d'Acerac  was  a  widower  with  one 
son.  He  could  not  resist  his  only  daughter, 
Isabelle,  when  she  declared  that  she  would  marry 
no  one  but  Stephen.  The  alliance,  moreover, 
was  in  every  way  honorable,  and  the  marriage 
was  decided  upon,  although  not  formally  an- 
nounced. The  engagement  remained  a  secret 
between  Stephen,  the  general,  and  his  daugh- 
ter. 


"PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!"  65 

Stephen  loved  Isabelle  with  a  rare,  profound 
love.  The  noble  poet's  exalted  ideals  made 
him  place  a  very  high  value  on  his  heart ;  dis- 
daining all  sentimental,  foolish  attachments,  he 
felt  that  when  he  once  loved  it  should  be  for 
all  time.  This  mystic  dreamer  was  effeminately 
prudish,  and  admired  those  mysterious-hearted 
widows  who  looked  upon  second  marriage  as 
a  lowering  of  their  nature. 

Meeting  Isabelle  just  as  she  was  budding 
into  womanhood,  the  fiery  darts  of  her  sparkling 
eyes  penetrated  to  the  depths  of  his  soul,  and 
awoke  a  love  which  was  never  extinguished. 

A  few  days  after  the  first  representation  of 
"  The  Poisonous  Fang,"  General  d'Acerac  called 
upon  Stephen. 

"  My  friend,"  said  the  general,  with  military 
bruskness,  "  I'll  be  your  second." 

"My  second!"  replied  Stephen;  "my  second 
— against  whom  ?  " 

"  Against  Robert  de  Salemberry,  of  course !  " 

"  But,  general,  I  have  not  the  slightest  inten- 
tion of  fighting  a  duel  with  Robert." 

"  Nevertheless,  you  must." 

"Why  should  I?" 

5 


66  "PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!" 

"  Because  he  has  grievously  insulted  you  : 
because  he  has  covered  you  with  ridicule." 

"That  is  true." 

"  Well,  a  good  sword-thrust " 

"  Pardon,  my  dear  general ;  be  good  enough 
to  listen  to  my  reasons.  While  I  might  take 
every  precaution  to  spare  my  adversary,  one 
never  knows  how  far  the  point  of  a  sword  may 
reach." 

"  Very  true." 

"  I  might  kill  Robert ;  and  I  do  not  wish  to 
take  that  risk.  First,  because  my  religious  as 
well  as  my  philosophic  principles  forbid  my 
righting  a  duel ;  and,  finally,  because  I  know  no 
law  that  condemns  a  man  to  death  for  writing 
a  malicious  comedy." 

"  Well,  what  reasons  !  " 

"  They  are  very  just  ones,  I  assure  you." 

"  But  it  will  be  said  that  you  are  afraid  to 
fight." 

"  I  proved  during  the  war  that  I  was  no  cow- 
ard; and  public  opinion,  the  what  will  they 
say  ?  of  the  gossips,  slander  of  any  kind,  or 
from  whatever  source,  affect  me  no  more  than 
servants'  gossip." 


"PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!"  67 

"  But  I  am  concerned  in  this.  I  do  not  wish 
the  man  whose  name  my  daughter  will  bear  to 
be  scoffed  at  in  the  papers.  If  you  do  not 
challenge  him,  I  will;  and  M.  Robert  de  Sa- 
lemberry  shall  find  at  least  one  of  the  family 
to  call  him  to  account.  If  I  am  killed,  it  will 
not  be  very  pleasant  for  you,  my  boy ;  and  it 
will  be  said,  'There  is  a  gentleman  who,  unlike 
the  Cid,  allowed  his  father-in-law  to  be  killed 
in  his  place. '  " 

"  For  that  very  reason,  general,  I  beg  you  to 
do  nothing  in  the  matter. " 

"  Very  well,  then ;  I  shall  give  you  three 
days  for  reflection." 

"  I  do  not  need  to  reflect." 

"  But  you  need  to  go  to  a  fencing-academy." 

"  I  have  still  less  need  of  that." 

"Yes,  I  know — your  skill  is  admirable;  but 
I  cannot  understand  you ;  and  I  warn  you  that 
your  conduct  will  be  equally  incomprehensible 
to  my  daughter." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it ;  and  if  you  doubt  it,  you 
have  only  to  discuss  the  subject  with  her 
briefly,  and,  as  she  admires  poets,  she  will  say 


68  "PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!" 

to  you :  '  Come  forth  a  victor  from  a  combat 
of  which  Chimcne  is  the  prize.'  Think  over 
this,  my  dear  Stephen ;  and  be  assured  that  I 
am  obliged  to  take  the  course  I  am  pursuing. 
So,  good-evening." 

General  d'Acerac  left  Stephen,  singing  as  he 
went  away :  "  Let  us  guard  the  safety  of  the 
Empire." 

The  following  week  the  general  gave  a  ball 
for  his  daughter's  young  friends,  which  Stephen 
failed  not  to  attend.  After  one  of  the  qua- 
drilles, the  young  poet  approached  Isabelle,  and, 
drawing  her  aside,  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"  You  know,  Mile.  Isabelle,  that  your  father 
exacts  of  me  a  duel  with  Robert?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

"What  do  I  think ?" 

Isabelle  hesitated  a  few  moments,  then  con- 
tinued : 

"You  wish  to  know  what  I  think  of  it?" 

"  Certainly." 

"Very  well,  you  shall  know.     Follow  me." 

They  withdrew  to  the  conservatory  adjoining 
the  drawing-room,  at  the  lower  end  of  which  a 


"PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!"  69 

quantity  of  rare  plants  were  so  arranged  as  to 
form  an  angular  space ;  this  was  furnished  with 
easy-chairs,  and  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
behind  the  flowers,  hung  Eastern  tapestry. 

"  Go  behind  these  curtains,  M.  de  Fleurigny, 
and  wait." 

Stephen  obeyed.  Isabelle  soon  returned, 
followed  by  several  young  girls,  whom  she 
seated  in  the  angle  sheltered  by  the  plants. 

"  Young  ladies,"  she  began,  in  a  grave  tone, 
"  I  have  something  very  serious  about  which 
I  wish  to  consult  you." 

"  Oh,  how  solemn  !  "  exclaimed  Pauline  de 
Meillan. 

"  You  know,"  continued  Isabelle,  "  that  there 
existed  in  France,  from  the  twelfth  to  the  four- 
teenth century,  a  singular  sort  of  tribunal  called 
the  Court  of  Love.  Matrons  and  maidens  of  high 
birth  assembled  to  decide  certain  difficult  ques- 
tions— the  import  of  which  the  name  of  the 
tribunal  sufficiently  explains.  Their  judgment 
was  always  respected  by  the  lords  of  that 
epoch — more  chivalrous  than  ours.  Laura  de 
Noves,  immortalized  by  Petrarch,  her  aunt 
Phanette,  the  Countess  de  Champagne,  the 


70  "PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!" 

Countess  de  Flandre,  and  the  Queen,  Elenore 
de  Guyenne,  took  part  in  this  tribunal,  which, 
unfortunately,  no  longer  exists. n 

"  It  would  have  too  much  to  do,"  murmured 
Pauline. 

"  I  want  you,  my  dear,  clever  friends,  to 
re-establish,  for  this  evening,  this  noble  insti- 
tution." 

The  curiosity  of  her  young  friends  being 
aroused,  they  all  responded  enthusiastically  to 
her  request. 

"  This,  then,  is  the  question,  the  problem 
that  I  beg  of  you  to  solve :  May  a  young  lady 
honorably  wed  a  man  who,  when  insulted,  re- 
fuses to  fight  a  duel  with  the  man  who  insults 
him?  Weigh  and  examine  the  subject  thor- 
oughly, then  give  your  opinion." 

"One  moment,"  said  Pauline;  "let  me 
carefully  reflect  while  finishing  my  sorbet. 
Well,  I  have  concluded  my  reflections." 

"Already?"  said  Mile.  Judith,  a  fair,  rosy- 
cheeked  English  girl,  who  kept  raising  her 
sparkling  eyes  to  heaven,  from  time  to  time, 
while  pondering  over  the  question. 

"  My  dear  Isabelle,"  replied  Pauline,  "Judith 


"PICHEGRV  STRANGLED!"  71 

is  mistaken  if  she  thinks  this  question  requires 
long  deliberation.  But  there  are  details  and 
circumstances  which  must  be  known  before  we 
pronounce  judgment.  For  example,  what  was 
the  nature  of  the  insult  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  public  insult." 

"  An  overt  act  ?  " 

"No." 

"  In  words  or  writing?  " 

"  Both  in  word  and  writing." 

"  Then,  in  my  opinion,  the  person  insulted 
ought  to  demand  reparation  at  the  point  of  the 
sword.  And  here,  my  friends,  is  an  example : 
It  is  said  everywhere  that  Stephen  de  Fleurigny 
is  to  fight  a  duel  with  Robert  de  Salemberry. 
And  he  certainly  should,  for  there  never  was 
such  an  outrageous  insult." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  exclaimed  Mile.  Judith ;  "  how 
interesting!  I  sympathize  deeply  with  him, 
and  I  sincerely  hope  he  may  be  the  victor." 

"  But  suppose  the  insulted  person  of  whom 
we  speak  does  not  act  as,  no  doubt,  M.  Stephen 
de  Fleurigny  would  under  such  circumstances  ?" 

"  In  that  case,  he  would  be  lacking  in  honor." 

"  Then,  I   put   the  question   again :    May  a 


72  "PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!" 

young  lady  honorably  wed  a  man  who,  when 
outrageously  insulted,  refuses  to  fight  a  duel  ? 
Let  us  put  it  to  the  vote.  Answer  in  suc- 
cession, yes,  or  no.  What  do  you  say,  Pau- 
line?" 

"No." 

"  And  you,  Judith  ?  " 

"  I  refrain  from  giving  my  opinion  from 
religious  motives." 

"And  you,  Theresa?" 

"No." 

"  And  you,  Marianne  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You,  Elizabeth  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You,  Clarissa?  " 

"No." 

"But  you,  yourself,  Isabelle?" 

Isabelle,  after  a  moment's  silence,  answered 
slowly : 

"No." 

"One  opinion  withheld  and  six  noes,"  said 
Pauline.  "  The  question  is  solved,  and  now  to 
the  dance." 

The  young  girls   returned   to  the  drawing- 


"PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!"  73 

room.  A  few  moments  later,  Stephen  made  his 
escape  from  the  house  through  the  conservatory, 
unobserved. 

Early  the  next  morning  Stephen  appeared  at 
the  French  Fencing  Academy,  where  he  met 
Fernan  d'Orviedo,  one  of  the  most  expert 
swordsmen  in  Paris,  to  whom  he  proposed  a 
trial  at  fencing.  Stephen  parried  with  such 
skill,  Fernan  never  succeeded  in  touching  him. 
Finally,  impatiently  advancing,  he  attempted  a 
double  disengagement,  but  Stephen  deftly  de- 
fended himself  by  a  downward  parry,  warded 
off  the  thrust,  and,  taking  direct  aim,  fairly 
touched  Fenian's  breast. 

"  Hit !  "  exclaimed  Fernan ;  "  you  are  in  ex- 
cellent trim.  Salemberry  will  need  to  look  out 
for  himself." 

Stephen  made  no  reply,  but  pressing  Fernan's 
hand  left  the  fencing-hall.  Passing  on  his  way 
home  the  church  of  St.  Roch,  he  hesitated  a 
second  before  the  door,  then  with  bowed  head 
ascended  the  steps,  hesitating  again  before 
opening  the  door,  and  finally  entered. 

That  same  evening  General  d'Acerac  received 
the  following  letter : 


74  "PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!' 

" GENERAL  : 

"  I  relinquish  an  alliance  which  was  very  dear 
to  me.  I  relinquish  it  resolutely,  but  with  a 
broken  heart.  God  must  be  considered  before 
man.  Accept,  general,  with  the  expression 
of  my  sincere  regret,  the  homage  of  my  re- 
spectful attachment. 

"  STEPHEN  DE  FLEURIGNY." 

The  following  month  Stephen  went  with  his 
mother  and  his  sister  Gilberte  to  Italy.  A  short 
time  afterward  Isabelle  married  Pauline's  broth- 
er, Lieutenant  Paul  de  Meillan,  one  of  her  fa- 
ther's ordnance  officers.  "  The  Poisonous  Fang  " 
was  in  its  sixtieth  representation,  and  soon 
reached  its  hundredth.  But  this  success,  like 
all  others,  ended  in  time.  Salemberry's  high 
order  of  intellect  made  him  fully  comprehend 
that  after  so  much  notoriety  he  owed  the  pub- 
lic something  better  than  a  work  of  satirical 
allusion.  He  well  knew  that  this  was  in  no 
way  the  genial  work  that  had  been  the  dream  of 
his  youth  and  the  noble  ambition  of  his  desires. 
He  therefore  set  about  finding  a  subject  worthy 
of  the  genius  he  felt  surging  within  him. 


"PICHEGRU  STRANGLED!"  75 

He  searched  a  long  time,  so  long  that  he  was 
still  in  pursuit  of  a  magnificent  ideal  at  the 
time  this  story  opens,  three  years  after  the  tri- 
umph he  gained  by  the  successful  representation 
of  "  The  Poisonous  Fang." 

So  far  his  efforts  were  in  vain.  This  vigor- 
ous poet,  though  still  young,  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  become  sterile;  this  was  the  natural 
result  of  the  false  step  he  had  taken,  for  rail- 
lery and  ridicule  are  to  the  mind  what  vice  is 
to  the  heart.  The  first  nail,  once  driven,  says 
Alfred  de  Musset,  is  drawn  out,  if  ever,  only 
after  protracted  and  terrible  efforts.  The  habit 
of  irony  is  fatal  to  great  thoughts ;  a  too  free 
indulgence  in  ridicule  intimidates  and  makes 
one  fear  that  just  restribution  here  below,  that 
revenge  of  justice,  which  sooner  or  later  smites 
a  man  with  the  very  weapons  he  has  forged. 

While  smoking  his  cigar  in  the  park  at  Ma- 
dame de  Rille's,  Robert  recalled  the  details  of 
this  affair,  and,  though  not  saddened  by  them, 
he  was  pensive  and  preoccupied. 


part  Seconb. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"THE  GAZE  WAS  IN  THE  TOMB." 

"  WELL,  my  dear  nephew,  have  you  made 
your  examination  of  conscience  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  aunt,  and  my  conscience  is 
tranquil." 

"  It  must  be  very  easily  quieted." 

"  No ;  I  assure  you  I  have  nothing  with 
which  to  reproach  myself." 

"  What,  Robert !  Did  you  not  paint  poor 
Stephen  in  the  most  grotesque  character,  vil- 
ify him,  drag  his  name  in  the  dust?  " 

"  I  did  it  only  in  legitimate  defence." 

"  It  was  the  dove,  then,  that  attacked  the 
hawk  ?  " 

"Yes,  aunt." 

"  You  may  say  this,  and  you  believe  it,  I 
hope ;  but  are  you  not  deceiving  yourself  ?  " 


"THE   GAZE    WAS  IN   THE    TOMB"          77 

"  No ;  I  have  proof  of  it — the  silence  of  the 
offender  when  questioned." 

"  What  does  that  prove  ?  That  he  did  not 
deign  to  defend  himself  against  such  an  accu- 
sation." 

"  That  was  an  added  insult." 

"  And  his  mother  and  sister,  whom  you  smote 
with  the  same  blow  ?  " 

"Justice  strikes  blindly." 

"  Blindness  is  not  her  best  quality.  There 
are  those  two  poor  women  who  have  exiled 
themselves  with  your  victim ;  they  have  now 
been  three  years  in  Rome  with  Stephen,  and  I 
have  no  one  to  play  whist  with  me." 

"  I'll  play  whist  with  you." 

"  You  know  nothing  of  the  game,  but  Ma- 
dame de  Fleurigny  and  Gilberte  play  remark- 
ably well." 

"They  will  return." 

"  It  would  be  curious  if  you  should  be  here 
when  they  arrive.  I  should  like  to  see  how 
you  would  face  them." 

"  With  the  countenance  of  a  man  who  has 
done  his  duty." 

"What    about  'The  Game   of  Virtues,'  and 


7 8         "  THE   GAZE    WAS  IN    THE    TOMB." 

the  duty  it  imposes  on  you,  of  repairing  the 
injury  done?  For,  admitting  your  good  faith, 
you  acted  no  less  through  anger  and  spite." 

"  No,  I  did  justice." 

"  Like  a  paladin,  did  you  not  ?  Like  the 
Chevalier  Roland,  or  the  Cid  ?  " 

"  Precisely,  my  dear  aunt." 

The  drawing-room  door  opened,  and  a  servant 
announced : 

"  Madame  and  Mile,  de  Fleurigny." 

"  Tableau  !"  exclaimed  Poncette. 

"  What !  is  it  you,  Madame  de  Fleurigny," 
cried  the  marquise ;  "  and  you,  dear  Gilberte ; 
have  you  fallen  from  heaven  ?" 

"  Yes,  from  Rome,"  answered  the  mother. 

"And  Stephen?  " 

"  He  remains  there." 

"  Now,"  continued  the  marquise,  "  I  can  have 
my  game  of  whist.  First,  let  me  present  you ; 
but  it  is  not  necessary;  you  knoweverybody  here. 
Robert,  my  handsome  nephew,  will  you  kindly 
prepare  the  card-table  and  the  accessories,  as  you 
cal  1  them  ?  That  belongs  to  your  province  as  dra- 
matic author.  First  come  and  make  your  bow 
to  these  ladies,  and  try  to  resemble  Bressant." 


"THE    GAZE    WAS  IN    THE    TOMB."         79 

Robert,  slightly  embarrassed,  bowed  pro- 
foundly. Madame  de  Fleurigny  returned  his 
salutation  coldly,  Gilberte  with  indifference. 
The  young  man  then  arranged  everything  for 
the  whist-party. 

"  Gilberte  and  I  will  play  against  Poncette 
and  Madame  de  Fleurigny.  Robert,  take  this 
chair  by  me,  and  try  to  profit  by  our  playing 
to  learn  the  game,  for  if  there  is  a  bungler  at 
cards  it  is  you. " 

The  game  began.  Robert,  seated  a  little 
in  shadow  behind  the  marquise,  faced  Gil- 
berte, upon  whom  fell  the  light  of  the  green 
lamp-shade.  He  could  not  help  looking 
at  her,  and  the  thought  came  suddenly  to  his 
mind : 

"  It  is  astonishing  how  much  she  resembles 
Stephen !  " 

Robert  had  not  seen  Gilberte  since  what  he 
in  bitter  irony  called  Stephen's  "  flight  into 
Egypt,"  more  than  three  years  before.  Gilberte 
was  only  sixteen  when  she  left  Rille  to  go  to 
Rome.  She  was  then  quite  a  child,  and  Robert 
always  looked  upon  her  as  such,  talking  to  her 
as  a  brother  would  to  a  younger  sister,  and  he 


So         "  THE   GAZE    WAS  IN    THE    TOMB." 

considered  her  rather  ugly,  with  her  long  face 
and  thin  shoulders.  This  Gilberte  bore  little 
resemblance  to  the  Gilberte  of  former  days. 
She  was  now  twenty,  tall  and  graceful,  and  her 
rather  elongated,  oval  face  harmonised  with  the 
breadth  of  her  pure,  noble  brow,  crowned  with 
a  rich  diadem  of  blond  hair.  But  the  most  no- 
ticeable trait  was  the  concentrated,  steadfast 
expression  of  her  long-lashed,  deep  blue  eyes, 
that  seemed  as  if  fixed  on  some  object  visible 
only  to  herself.  Robert  remembered  that  Ste- 
phen's eyes  had  that  same  mysterious  fixed  ex- 
pression, and  the  resemblance  to  her  brother  in 
look  and  feature  was  so  perfect  Robert  could 
easily  imagine  that  the  image  of  his  vanquished 
enemy  was  before  him.  Once,  Gilberte,  laying 
her  cards  on  the  table  raised  her  head,  and  open- 
ing wide  her  eyes  looked  directly  at  Robert 
without  seeming  to  see  him.  The  young  poet, 
feeling  himself  grow  red  and  pale  by  turns  under 
her  unchanging  gaze,  rose  to  escape  the  unpleas- 
ant constraint,  but  Madame  de  Rille  soon  called 
him  back,  and  a  shudder  went  through  him  as 
he  again  met  that  same  impassable  gaze. 

Robert,  like  all  poets,  knew  by  heart  certain 


"  THE   GAZE    WAS  IN   THE    TOMB."         81 

favorite  verses,  that  he  often,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, repeated  to  himself  in  a  low  tone,  thus 
marking  the  train  of  his  thoughts,  as  the  soldier 
in  marching  keeps  step  by  humming  a  well- 
known  refrain. 

Under  Gilberte's  strange  glance,  a  line  from 
one  of  his  favorite  poems  passed  rapidly  through 
his  mind ;  that  terrible  poem,  "  The  Legend  of 
the  Ages"  : 

"  The  gaze  was  in  the  tomb,  and  looked  upon  Cain  ! " 

Robert  had  never  better  understood  the 
depths  of  its  meaning. 

Fortunately  for  him,  for  he  was  very  ill  at 
ease,  the  whist-party  soon  ended,  and  Madame 
de  Rille's  friends  withdrew. 

Robert  accompanied  M.  and  Mme.  de  No- 
longue,  who  returned  on  foot  to  their  cottage, 
Les  Chartrettes. 

"  What  ails  you,  my  dear  cousin  ?  "  Louis 
asked  on  the  way;  "you  look  so  sad  and 
troubled." 

"Well    he  might,"    added   Madame  de  No- 
longue  ;   "  he  has   seen   something  worse  than 
the  devil;  he  met  an  accusing  angel." 
6 


82         "  THE    GAZE    WAS  IN   THE    TOMB." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  pretty  cousin?" 

"  I  mean  that  Stephen  resembles  his  sister 
too  much  ever  to  have  been  capable  of  commit- 
ting the  deed  of  which  you  accused  him  and 
for  which  you  so  cruelly  avenged  yourself." 

"  He  committed  it,  nevertheless." 

"  I  do  not  believe  he  did  anything  of  the 
kind,  and  I  hope  to  convince  you  of  it,  my  dear 
cousin.  'The  Game  of  Virtues,'  restored  to 
favor  by  the  marquise,  has  succeeded  too  admi- 
rably with  me  not  to  have  similar  success  with 
you.  'Repair  the  injury  that  was  done' — this 
is  to  be  your  task,  and  I  shall  help  you  in 
this  difficult  undertaking.  Louis  and  I  leave 
to-morrow  for  Paris;  send  us  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  your  great  actress,  Maria  Or- 
fano." 

"  Why  do  you  want  this  letter?  " 

"  You  will  know  later." 

"  You  intend  to  play  some  trick  on  me." 

"  How  suspicious  you  are,  sir  judge  !  Send 
us  the  letter,  and  you  will  have  no  cause  to 
repent  it.'  " 

"  Well,  I  will,  cousin." 

"  Good !  and,  while  waiting  to  hear  from  us, 


"THE    GAZE    WAS  IN   THE    TOMB."         83 

meditate  upon  and  practise  'The  Game  of  Vir- 
tues. ' ' 

As  Robert  was  returning  to  the  castle  he  saw 
Gilberte  and  her  mother  some  distance  down 
the  road,  on  their  way  to  the  village.  On  reach- 
ing home  he  went  at  once  to  his  room,  and 
before  going  to  bed  he  chanced  to  pick  up  a 
collection  of  poems  from  various  authors ;  on 
opening  the  volume  his  glance  fell  upon  the 
famous  verse : 

"  The  gaze  was  in  the  tomb  .  .  . 

He  threw  down  the  book  impatiently,  but  he 
was  unable  to  sleep  until  far  into  the  night 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE    GYPSIES. 

THE  days  following  this  visit  Robert  devoted 
to  the  chase,  and,  as  Madame  de  Fleurigny  and 
her  daughter  came  to  Madame  de  Rille's  only 
during  her  nephew's  absence,  Robert  did  not 
see  Gilberte  again  till  the  day  on  which  the 
following  dramatic  incident  unexpectedly  oc- 
curred. 

On  the  property  belonging  to  the  Rille"  es- 
tate there  was  a  vast  tract  of  land  covered  with 
bare  pines  and  remote  from  any  habitation ;  the 
wildest  piece  of  country  to  be  seen  in  Touraine. 
It  was  inhabited  solely  by  a  tribe  of  gypsies 
whose  origin  was  unknown.  Whether  they 
came  from  Spain,  Italy,  or  Hungary  was  un- 
certain, but  it  was  thought  they  probably  were 
from  Spain.  The  tribe  numbered  about  a  hun- 
dred men,  women,  and  children.  They  lived 
here  in  defiance  of  police  and  keepers,  who 
84 


THE    GYPSIES.  85 

scarcely  dared  venture  on  these  wild  lands, 
disdainfully  ignored  by  the  officers  of  the  Reg- 
istry. There  was  nothing  to  steal  and  no  one 
to  rob ;  therefore  the  gypsies  lived  by  the  chase, 
fishing,  and  poaching. 

Robert  often  hunted  in  this  neighborhood, 
abounding  in  game,  the  almost  complete  soli- 
tude of  which  was  very  pleasant  to  him. 

One  day,  going  through  the  woods,  a  black 
hare  started  just  at  his  feet,  but  the  underbrush 
being  very  thick  Robert  was  obliged  to  fire  at 
random ;  it  was  evident  by  the  excitement  and 
barking  of  his  dog  that  he  had  wounded  the 
animal,  but  it  had  still  strength  enough  to  run, 
and  Robert  saw  it  in  the  distance  making  a  last 
effort  to  reach  the  heath ;  but  the  poor  beast 
did  not  go  far  before  the  dog  fell  upon  it. 

Suddenly  several  men  sprang  up  from  behind 
the  bushes,  one  of  whom  seized  the  hare,  and, 
followed  by  his  companions,  started  for  the  pine 
forest  that  bordered  the  opposite  side  of  the 
land.  Robert's  dog  tried  to  regain  possession 
of  his  prey,  but  one  of  the  gypsies  struck  the 
dog  a  blow  with  a  stick  that  sent  it  back  howl- 
ing to  his  master.  Robert  was  furious,  and  ran 


86  THE   GYPSIES. 

after  the  land  pirates,  whom  he  overtook  on  a 
narrow  path,  a  few  steps  from  the  entrance  of 
the  wood.  Here  he  found  himself  in  a  clear- 
ing, surrounded  by  several  wretched  wooden 
huts.  Some  twenty  dark,  savage-looking  men 
and  women,  hideous  in  their  rags,  stood  about 
in  menacing  attitudes,  but  Robert  was  brave. 

"Give  me  that  hare,"  he  demanded  in  a  firm 
voice,  addressing  the  chief  of  the  band. 

"It  is  mine;   I  found  it." 

"  But  I  shot  it,  and  it  is  mine.  Give  it  to  me 
at  once !  " 

Robert  advanced  aggressively  towards  his  ad- 
versary, but  in  an  instant  twenty  clubs,  knives, 
and  hammers  were  raised  over  his  head.  He 
retreated  a  few  steps,  and  quickly  placing  his 
back  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree  he  kept  the 
rascals  at  a  distance  for  a  time  by  rapidly  twirl- 
ing his  empty  gun. 

"  Make  way  with  the  Christian !  "  howled  all 
the  band. 

'"'  Kill  him,  kill  him  !  "  cried  a  woman  who  had 
stealthily  crept  up  behind  the  young  man,  and 
now  sprang  furiously  upon  him. 

It  seemed  all  over  with  Robert. 


THE   GYPSIES.  87 

"  Stop,  Catalina !     Stop,  Gualterio !  " 

The  bandits  desisted,  recognizing  Gilberte's 
voice,  who,  with  her  mother,  had  just  come 
upon  the  scene. 

"  Oh,  it  is  the  good  young  lady  who  cured 
Pelagia ! " 

"  If  I  have  saved  your  daughter,  Catalina,  do 
me  a  like  favor:  protect  this  young  man." 

At  a  sign  from  Catalina  way  was  made  for 
Robert  to  pass. 

"Take  your  game,"  said  Gualterio. 

"  You  may  have  it,"  answered  Robert. 

Passing  Gilberte,  Robert,  bowing  as  he  would 
in  a  drawing-room,  said  simply : 

"  Thank  you. " 

"  Go,  M.  de  Salemberry ;  if  you  remain  the 
disturbance  may  be  renewed.  Catalina,  take 
me  to  your  daughter;  she  still  needs  care." 

Gilberte  went  towards  one  of  the  miserable 
huts,  but  turned  as  she  was  about  to  enter,  and 
Robert,  who  looked  back  at  the  same  moment, 
met  her  eyes  quietly  fixed  upon  him. 

The  Marquise  de  Rille  seemed  much  amused 
by  the  tragic  account  Robert  gave  her  of  his 
adventure  on  his  return  to  the  castle. 


88  THE    GYPSIES. 

"  This  was  especially  arranged  for  you,  my 
handsome  nephew;  but  it  is  rather  reversing 
things.  Ariosto  would  not  understand  it ;  An- 
gelica rescues  Roger,  in  this  case.  The  paladin 
ought  to  feel  rather  humiliated." 

"  He  does,  a  little,  aunt." 

"  Yes,  but  that  ought  not  prevent  his  being 
grateful.  We  shall  go  together  to-morrow  to 
thank  Angelica." 

"  I  fear  a  cool  reception. " 

"  Have  no  fear ;  a  heroine  never  receives 
her  proteg6  coldly.  You  will  offer  her  a  life- 
saving  medal,  and  all  will  go  well.  You  must 
have  looked  foolish  enough,  and  she  must  have 
been  superb,  subduing  those  savages  by  her 
commanding  voice  and  manner. " 

"  She  was  calm  and  natural,  that  was  all." 

"  I'll  explain  this  affair  to  you,  my  brave 
nephew.  You  have  not  been  much  in  this 
part  of  the  country  of  late  years,  or  you  would 
have  known  that  before  they  went  to  Italy, 
three  years  ago,  Madame  de  Fleurigny,  Gil- 
berte,  and  Stephen  were  in  the  habit  of  sup- 
plying these  poor  gypsies,  who  came  near  kill- 
ing you,  gratuitously  with  medicine,  and  almost 


THE   GYPSIES.  89 

obliged  them  to  use  their  remedies.  As  soon 
as  they  heard  that  one  of  these  rascals  had 
broken  an  arm  or  leg,  our  two  infirmarians  went 
at  once  to  their  aid,  accompanied  by  Stephen, 
who  is  something  of  a  surgeon  ;  which  you  ought 
to  be  also,  Robert,  for  you  like  to  break  bones, 
in  a  literary  sense,  though  it  is  better  to  reset 
them.  Gilberte's  specialty  was  curing  the  fe- 
vers that  were  very  prevalent  among  the  women 
and  children  of  the  tribe.  She  was  always  very 
successful,  owing  to  the  use  of  quinine,  and  I 
recommend  it  to  you  if  you  ever  have  fever. 
I  see  that  these  ladies  since  their  return  have 
resumed  their  role  of  travelling  hospital — fortu- 
nately for  you.  This  is  the  explanation  of  your 
adventure. " 

"  Evidently  I  owe  my  life  to  Gilberte." 
"  Your  life,  perhaps ;  but  in  any  case  you 
would  not  have  escaped  without,  at  least,  some 
serious  injury  or  ridiculous  scar.  But  I  am 
mistaken;  in  you  nothing  could  ever  appear 
ridiculous ;  you  would  write  a  poem  on  it ;  a 
poet  can  afford  to  be  maimed  and  resemble 
Cervantes,  or  blind — Milton's  blindness  added 
much  to  his  fame." 


9°  THE   GYPSIES. 

"  You  are  ridiculing  me,  my  dear  aunt." 

"  Because  I  am  so  happy  to  see  you  with  two 
eyes  and  both  arms.  But,  seriously,  my  dear, 
we  must  make  that  visit  to-morrow  to  Madame 
de  Fleurigny." 

This  visit,  Robert  felt,  would  be  a  trying 
ordeal,  but  he  resigned  himself  to  it  bravely, 
wondering  all  the  while  if  he  could  with  pro- 
priety escape  it. 

Madame  de  Fleurigny's  home  at  Rill6  was 
most  attractive.  The  house,  built  of  red  brick 
framed  in  gray  stone,  seemed  to  smile  a  gra- 
cious welcome  under  its  green  tile  roof.  On 
the  small  stream  that  flowed  through  the  gar- 
den a  flock  of  ducks  swam  in  single  file ;  in 
the  tall  acacia-trees  the  pigeons  chattered  seri- 
ously of  their  affairs,  and  the  church  belfry 
threw  its  long  shadow  across  the  emerald-green 
sward.  Madame  de  Fleurigny  was  busily  occu- 
pied preparing  a  baby's  basket  for  a  future 
elector,  when  the  Marquise  de  Rille  and  her 
nephew,  M.  de  Salemberry,  were  announced. 
She  rose  quickly,  contrary  to  her  usually  grave 
manner,  and,  running  to  meet  the  marquise, 
seized  both  her  hands. 


THE    GYPSIES.  91 

"  Oh,  my  dear  friend,  your  arrival  is  as  timely 
as  Marshal  McMahon's  at  Magenta;  I  am  quite 
bewildered  in  the  midst  of  all  this  lace  and 
trimming,  and  you  will  extricate  me  from 
my  difficulties.  Good-morning,  M.  de  Salem- 
berry;  you  will  advise  me  also.  Let  us  be 
seated." 

"  Madame,"  said  Robert,  advancing,  "  I  wish 
to  say ' 

"That  baby-clothes  are  not  easy  to  make, 
which  I  know  better  than  you." 

"  No,  madame ;  but  I  do  not  know  how  to 
explain  to  you " 

"  That  this  cap  is  too  large  and  this  dress  too 
narrow  ?  Say  no  more ;  I  agree  with  you.  But 
you,  my  dear  marquise,  will  understand  that  it 
is  easy  enough  to  make  a  large  cap  smaller ;  the 
problem  is  to  increase  the  width  of  a  narrow 
dress." 

"  We  shall  try  to  solve  it." 

"  But  I  see  that  your  nephew  is  not  much 
interested  in  the  solution.  Take  a  turn  in 
the  garden,  M.  de  Salemberry,  and  if  you 
meet  Gilberte  let  her  know  that  your  aunt  is 
here." 


92  THE    GYPSIES. 

Robert  went  out  without  having  been  able  to 
finish  his  speech.  He  did  not  meet  Gilberte 
in  the  garden,  but  on  looking  further  he  caught 
sight  of  her  in  a  little  summer-house.  The 
young  girl  was  seated  at  a  rustic  wooden  table, 
reading;  she  seemed  deeply  absorbed  in  her 
book,  on  the  margin  of  which  she  from  time  to 
time  wrote  hastily  with  a  gold  pencil  that  glis- 
tened in  her  white  ringers.  At  the  sound  of 
Robert's  footstep  on  the  gravel,  she  turned, 
slightly  startled,  and,  quickly  closing  her  book, 
extended  her  hand  with  prompt  cordiality  to 
her  visitor.  Her  eyes  had  the  same  mysterious 
impassibility,  but  a  kind  smile  played  gently 
on  her  lips. 

Robert,  still  more  embarrassed  in  the 
daughter's  presence  than  he  had  been  in  her 
mother's,  again  attempted  the  long-prepared 
speech : 

"  Mile,  de  Fleurigny,  I  wish  to  say  to 
you " 

"  I,  too,  have  something  to  say  to  you,  M. 
de  Salem  berry." 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  explain  to  you,  Mile, 
de  Fleurigny " 


THE   GYPSIES.  93 

"  Exactly ;  I  also  have  an  explanation  to  make 
to  you,  M.  de  Salemberry;  I  shall  make  mine 
first,  with  your  permission." 

Robert  bowed,  much  astonished  and  more 
embarrassed  than  ever. 

"  M.  de  Salemberry,  I  have  a  serious  re- 
proach to  make."  Robert  trembled. 

"  Yes,  you  are  more  impetuous  and  imprudent 
than  I  could  have  supposed.  Yesterday,  for  a 
miserable  hare,  you  abused  those  poor  wretches 
who  intended  you  no  harm." 

"  What,  no  harm !  But  for  you,  Mile,  de  Fleu- 
rigny,  they  would  have  killed  me." 

"  Not  at  all,  M.  de  Salemberry ;  they  had  no 
such  intention.  This  is  what  I  want  to  explain 
to  you :  these  fearless  gypsies  wanted  to  test 
your  courage ;  they  have  a  mania  for  frighten- 
ing people ;  but  they  did  not  succeed  with  you, 
and  after  you  left  their  chief  said  to  me,  in  his 
picturesque  language :  '  Your  friend's  blood  was 
up,  but  he  kept  his  head.'  The  gypsy  chief  was 
right ;  you  were  in  no  danger  yesterday,  but 
another  time  your  impetuosity  may  cost  you 
very  dear." 

"  You  are  generous,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny,  and 


94  THE   GYPSIES. 

I  perfectly  understand  the  feeling  of  deli- 
cacy— 

"  Delicacy,  generosity  !  I  do  not  understand. 
Now  let  us  talk  of  something  else,  please." 

Robert  closed  his  eyes  to  keep  back  the  tears 
that  trembled  on  the  lids. 

"  Come,  let  us  talk  of  something  else,  I  beg 
of  you." 

Robert,  regaining  his  self-possession,  said : 
"  I  interrupted  the  reading  in  which  you  seemed 
so  much  interested,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny." 

"  Yes,  M.  de  Salemberry,  very  much." 

"  If  I  dared  —  if  you  would  not  think  me 
too  indiscreet — I  should  like  to  ask  what  the 
book  is?  " 

Gilberte  blushed,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  I  see  I  have  been  very  indiscreet ;  such 
familiar  curiosity  is,  I  admit,  allowable  and 
pardonable  only  in  a  friend." 

Gilberte  reflected  a  few  moments,  then  said 
suddenly : 

"  M.  de  Salemberry,  I  have  no  reason  to 
hide  what  I  do,  think,  or  read.  You  asked  me 
what  this  book  is ;  do  you  repeat  the  ques- 
tion? " 


THE    GYPSIES.  95 

"  Yes,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny." 

"  You  really  wish  to  know  then  ?  " 

"I  really  do." 

"  In  that  case,  take  and  read  it." 

She  handed  him  the  volume,  bound  in  rough 
leather;  Robert  opened  it  and  read  the  title- 
page:  "The  Poisonous  Fang:  A  Comedy  in 
Five  Acts,  by  Robert  de  Salemberry." 

"  Fate  is  cruel,"  murmured  Robert,  in  a  hol- 
low voice.  He  felt  the  book  trembling  in  his 
hand,  lowered  his  eyes  under  Gilberte's  search- 
ing gaze,  and,  to  cover  his  increasing  embarrass- 
ment, he  began  turning  over  the  leaves. 

"  Are  you  looking  at  the  notes  written 
there?  "  asked  Gilberte. 

"  I  dare  not  allow  myself  to  look  at  them." 

"  Why  not  ?  You  have  a  great  desire  to,  I 
imagine." 

"That  is  true." 

"  Well,  then " 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  Very  well,  M.  de  Salemberry ;  take  the 
book;  I  give  it  to  you.  And  now  let  us  join 
my  mother  in  the  drawing-room." 

Madame  de   Rille  was   taking  leave  of  her 


96  THE    GYPSIES. 

friend  when  Gilberte  and  Robert  joined  them. 
As  he  was  leaving  them  he  noticed  a  portrait 
on  an  easel  in  a  corner  of  the  room :  one  of  G. 
Saint- Pierre's  masterpieces.  It  was  difficult 
to  distinguish  the  picture,  almost  hidden  in 
shadow,  and  Robert  went  towards  it  to  get  a 
better  view;  but  Gilberte,  seeing  his  object, 
placed  herself  between  him  and  the  portrait. 

"No,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice;  "it  is  Ste- 
phen." 

Robert  drew  back  trembling,  but  made  no 
reply.  Gilberte's  gaze  was  no  longer  cold  and 
impenetrable;  subdued  lightning  flashed  from 
her  eyes  as  they  followed  Robert's  retreating 
figure. 


CHAPTER    III. 

A    YOUNG    GIRL'S    CRITICISM    OF    THE    COMEDY. 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  in  his  room,  Robert 
hastened  to  open  the  volume  Gilberte  had  given 
him,  feeling  more  misgiving  than  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  first  representation  of  the  play.  It 
was  not  the  murmurs  of  the  orchestra,  nor  the 
whispers  of  the  parquet  that  he  now  had  to 
dread,  but  the  candid  judgment  of  a  child. 

"  Doubtless,  she  cannot  be  impartial,"  he  said 
to  himself ;  "  she  must  defend  her  brother  in- 
dignantly and  with  bitterness  against  the  satir- 
ical work.  It  is  very  natural  that  she  should 
look  upon  me  as  a  monster,  and  tell  me  so  un- 
sparingly. This  promises  to  be  interesting.  A 
young  girl's  criticism  of  the  theatre — the  dove  in 
the  role  of  the  hawk,  cooing  ferociously,  is  quite 
a  new  study.  I'll  submit  myself  fearlessly  to 
her  little  claws,  for  the  sake  of  the  amusement 

it  will  afford  me. " 

7  97 


9§      A    GIRL'S  CRITICISM   OF    THE    COMEDY. 

He  did  well  to  laugh  in  anticipation,  for  what 
he  saw  on  opening  the  book  was  not  reassuring. 
On  the  first  page,  the  fly-leaf,  he  found  the  fol- 
lowing : 

"  I  must  carefully  re-read  this  comedy,  this 
'Poisonous  Fang,'  this  abominable  attack  upon 
our  poor  Stephen.  My  mother  weeps  every 
time  she  speaks  of  it.  Stephen  never  speaks  of 
it,  but  I  know  well  that  when  he  is  so  very 
sad  it  is  in  consequence  of  this  detestable 
comedy. 

"  Is  it  really  possible  that  Robert  could  have 
had  such  a  malicious  intention  ?  No,  no ;  I 
cannot  believe  it ;  he  dearly  loved  Stephen, 
who  returned  his  love  so  generously;  and  he 
was  always  so  good  to  me  when  I  was  a  little 
child,  and  as  I  grew  up. 

"  Oh !  if  I  could  prove  that  Robert  is  not  to 
blame,  and  that  my  mother,  Stephen,  and  all 
the  others  are  mistaken.  If  I  could  reconcile 
them,  how  happy  I  should  be !  " 

"  Poor  child !  she  has  courage ;  why  has  not 
her  brother?  " 

At  the  end  of  the  first  scene  Gilberte  had 
written  ; 


A    G/A'L'S   CRITICISM  OF   THE   COMEDY.    99 

"  How  difficult  it  is  to  judge;  I  cannot  fail 
to  see  how  fine,  how  beautiful  all  this  is ;  but 
it  seems  to  me  too  fine  and  beautiful.  I  must 
be  very  foolish,  for  everybody  else  judges  it 
very  differently.  The  essential  point  is,  that 
there  is,  so  far,  nothing  against  Stephen ;  abso- 
lutely nothing." 

•'  Beware  of  what  follows,"  thought  Robert,  as 
he  resumed  the  reading  of  the  notes ;  he  found 
the  following  on  the  margin  of  the  fifth  scene : 

"  Ah,  here  is  the  poet.  This  will  bear  care- 
ful examination.  It  is  nothing — he  writes  verses 
in  an  album — that  is  not  a  crime,  it  is  merely 
sentimental ;  moreover,  this  poet  does  not  re- 
semble Stephen,  who  has  a  horror  of  such 
sentimentality.  I  remember  a  couplet  of  his : 

"  '  On  that  instrument  of  torture 
Adorned  with  the  name  of  album.' 

This  is  not  Stephen,  so  far,  at  least." 

"  She  judges  kindly  here,  but  the  second 
act !  the  second  act !  " 

On  the  margin  of  the  famous  scene  of  the 
sonnet,  Gilberte's  writing  had  become  more 
nervous,  and  her  comments  showed  more  agi- 
tation : 


ioo  A    GIRL'S   CRITICISM  OF   THE    COMEDY. 

"Yes,  yes;  this  is  meant  for  Stephen  —  there 
are  words  and  many  things  that  designate  him. 
This  sonnet  is  evidently  a  parody  on  Stephen's 
sonnets.  Let  me  read  further :  I  must  not  be 
too  quick  to  condemn.  I  must  see  if  there  are 
no  excuses,  no  extenuating  circumstances  to 
which  Robert  might  appeal.  He  certainly  was 
in  the  wrong — yes,  gravely  in  the  wrong — and 
he  feels  it,  too ;  for  one  of  the  players,  to  ex- 
culpate the  author,  alludes  to  Orontc  s  sonnet. 
I  shall  read  the  'Misanthrope'  again  to  com- 
pare it — 

Gilberte's  notes  stopped  here,  but  were  re. 
sumed  on  the  following  page : 

"  I  have  read  the  'Misanthrope.'  I  dare  not 
write  what  I  think — all  this  is  too  much  for  a 
young  girl.  If  I  dared,  I  would  confess  that, 
in  my  opinion,  it  is  not  Orontc  who  is  ridicu- 
lous— it  is  Alccstc  s  peevish  humor  that  makes 
me  laugh.  As  to  the  sonnet,  I  also  confess 
that  I  do  not  now  find  it  so  ridiculous — it  was, 
no  doubt,  the  way  in  which  it  was  read  at  the 
theatre  that  made  it  appear  so — I  see  very  well 
that  Moliere  also  intended  to  ridicule  Oronte — 
I  am  completely  bewildered " 


A    GIRL'S  CRITICISM   OF    THE   COMEDY-    101 

Later  on  Gilberte  had  written  in  very  large 
letters : 

"  The  truth  is,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  comic 
authors  seek  everywhere  their  prey ;  they  live 
only  upon  what  they  kill ;  and  they  kill  with  a 
sneer.  Comedy  is  by  nature  decidedly  inhu- 
man. If  there  is  any  excuse  for  Robert,  it  is 
that  he  has  followed  bad  example,  even  at  the 
expense  of  a  friend.  However,  so  far  I  see 
nothing  abominable,  as  my  mother  calls  it. 
There  is  evidence  of  fickleness  of  mind,  but 
not  of  hardheartedness.  I  can  understand  that 
friendship  might  resent  it,  but  not  die  of  it; 
I  shall  write  to  Stephen." 

"She  certainly  is  an  angel  of  forgiveness," 
thought  Robert. 

It  seems  that  the  forgiveness,  even  of  an 
angel,  has  its  limits;  for,  on  the  last  page  of 
the  following  act,  Gilberte's  pencil  had  written 
only  these  words : 

"  My  mother  was  right ;  I  shall  read  no 
more. " 

The  young  girl  did  not  keep  her  word,  for  at 
the  end  of  the  play  Robert  found  an  entire  page, 
written  evidently  much  later  than  the  others : 


102   A    GIRL'S  CRITICISM  OF    THE    COMEDY. 

"  I  have  had  a  good  cry,  which  has  somewhat 
restored  my  composure.  When  the  play  ap- 
peared three  years  ago,  I  did  not  seize  all  its 
meaning,  or  appreciate  all  its  venom — oh,  no ! 
I  understand  now  what  Stephen  must  have  suf- 
fered. And  the  guilty  one,  I  am  sure  he  ought 
to  have  suffered  also — like  all  inhuman  beings. 
I  was  right — all  satirists  are  inhuman.  But  I 
hope  they  suffer  for  it.  God  is  just.  Who 
would  have  believed  that  Robert  would  delib- 
erately, coolly,  patiently,  day  by  day,  write  such 
things  as  these.  He  awoke  and  went  to  sleep 
with  these  thoughts.  It  is  horrible  to  think  of 
it !  My  mother  and  Stephen  are  too  forgiving. 
I  hate  him  !  " 

Robert  let  the  book  fall. 

"  She  does  not  know,  then,  that  Stephen  was 
the  first  offender ;  I  wish  she  knew  it.  No,  she 
would  not  believe  me ;  and  why  should  I  cause 
her  another  pang  ?  She  saved  my  life,  and  shall 
I  sadden  hers  ?  Never,  never !  " 

Let  us  leave  Robert  in  the  midst  of  his 
gloomy  reflections,  and  start  for  Paris. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE    CLEVEREST    OF    PARISIAN    ACTRESSES. 

THIS  fine  eulogy  has  been  deservedly  pro- 
nounced upon  at  least  a  dozen  actresses.  The 
one  who  deserved  it  most  was  Maria  Orfano,  and 
this  compliment  was  the  minimum  of  the  praise 
bestowed  upon  her,  for  as  we  have  already  said 
she  was  as  good  as  she  was  intelligent.  Her 
goodness  of  heart  was  accompanied  by  a  play- 
ful archness,  always  on  the  alert. 

M.  and  Mme.  de  Nolongue  brought  her,  one 
morning,  Robert's  letter.  She  received  them 
cordially,  and  while  reading  the  letters  scanned 
them  both  with  the  corner  of  her  eye.  The 
result  of  the  examination  was  favorable,  for, 
assuming  her  most  gracious  smile,  she  said : 

"  Monsieur  and  madame,  I  am  at  your  ser- 
vice. This  letter  of  M.  de  Salemberry's  was 
not  at  all  necessary.  What  can  I  do  for 
you  ?  " 

103 


104   CLEVEREST  OF  PARISIAN  ACTRESSES. 

"  I  assure  you,  madame,  the  matter  is  a  very 
delicate  one." 

"'We  love  to  be  flattered  for  our  intelli- 
gence. '  Do  you  bring  me  a  sonnet,  M.  de 
Nolongue  ?  " 

"  Fortunately,  no,  madame ;  although  this 
is  a  question  of  one — the  famous  sonnet  of 
'The  Poisonous  Fang.'  " 

"  Ah,  yes ;  explain,  please ;  let  us  come  to  the 
point." 

This  "  let  us  come  to  the  point"  disconcerted 
M.  de  Nolongue,  and  he  found  it  convenient 
to  throw  the  burden  of  explanation  on  his 
wife. 

"  My  dear  Poncette,  explain  the  affair  your- 
self to  Madame  Orfano." 

"Willingly,"  replied  Poncette. 

"  Your  name  is  Poncette,  madame  ?  " 

"  But  through  no  fault  of  mine ;  it  is  the 
Christian  name  borne  by  all  the  women  of  our 
family  for  several  generations." 

"  Parents  have  singular  ideas.  Let  us  pro- 
ceed." 

"  This  is  what  brings  us  to  you,  madame. 
You  know  'The  Poisonous  Fang'  better  than 


CLEVEREST  OF  PARISIAN  ACTRESSES.    105 

any  one  else;  for  our  cousin's  comedy  owes 
to  you — 

"  The  greatest  part  of  its  success — that  is 
agreed.  Continue." 

"  You  know  this  unfortunate  play  (unfortu- 
nate in  this  sense  only)  was  an  attack  upon  a 
clever  poet — 

"  Stephen  de  Fleurigny.  That  is,  I  am  in- 
deed sorry  to  say,  true ;  and  I  took  upon  my- 
self to  reproach  the  author  for  it :  which  proves 
that  I  had  courage." 

"  And  a  great  deal  of  heart." 

"  If  you  wish." 

"  Then,  madame,  my  husband  and  I  hope  to 
have  you  as  an  ally  in  our  project." 

"  What  project?  " 

"We  are  fully  persuaded  that  Robeit  was 
mistaken,  and  most  unjust,  in  revenging  himself 
so  cruelly  on  Stephen.  We  think  that  the  ar- 
ticle in  The  Viper,  which  caused  the  rupture  of 
their  friendship,  was  not  Stephen's,  and  that  he 
allowed  himself,  for  some  unknown  reason,  to 
be  accused  of  writing  it." 

"  That  is  my  opinion,  also,"  said  the  actress, 
in  a  grave  tone. 


io6    CLEVEREST  OF  PARISIAN  ACTRESSES. 

"  But,  madame,  our  conviction  does  not  suf- 
fice," replied  Madame  de  Nolongue.  "The 
only  means  of  showing  Salemberry  his  mistake 
is  to  discover  the  real  author  of  the  article,  and 
we  have  come  to  Paris  for  that  purpose." 

"  It  certainly  was  a  mistake  to  name  you 
Poncette,  madame,  for  you  are  not  descended 
from  that  Pontius  Pilate  who  washed  his  hands 
of  innocent  blood.  What  measures  do  you  in- 
tend to  take  to  discover  this  anonymous  author  ?" 

"  We  know  none ;  therefore  we  rely  upon 
you  to  help  us." 

"  Upon  me?  " 

"Yes,  on  your  goodness — your  cleverness." 

Madame  Orfano  reflected  a  moment ;  then 
with  a  sweet  smile,  and  in  her  rich,  mellow 
voice,  exclaimed  : 

"But  'that  will  require  a  special  scene,'  as 
said  the  eminent . " 

"  You  would  do  it  so  well." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure ;  but,  to  please  you,  I  shall 
try;  for  you  are  good  people.  Let  us  see. 
First  of  all,  have  you  the  article  from  The  Vipef 
with  you  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  shall  send  it  to  you." 


CLEVEREST  OF  PARISIAN  ACTRESSES.    107 

"This  evening;  do  not  forget." 

The  beautiful  actress  again  reflected  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  said : 

"  Do  me  the  honor,  M.  le  Baron,  to  dine  with 
me  next  Sunday.  I  do  not  invite  madame,  you 
understand." 

"  I  accept  with  great  pleasure,  madame." 

"  I  shall  invite,  for  the  same  day,  all  the  edi- 
torial staff  of  The  Viper,  with  a  few  of  my  other 
journalist  friends,  and — and  we  shall  see.  Un- 
til Sunday,  then." 

As  M.  and  Mme.  de  Nolongue  were  about 
to  take  leave,  the  actress  approached  him  and 
said,  "  Baron,  come  a  little  nearer  the  win- 
dow." 

Baron  de  Nolongue  obeyed,  and  Maria  Orfano 
looked  at  him  a  moment,  in  the  strong  light : 

"  I  suspected  it,"  pointing  to  Louis'  curled 
locks ;  "  I  thought  so.  That  came  from  the 
house  of  William  Thomson,  London." 

M.  de  Nolongue  blushed  crimson. 

"  I  told  you  so,  Louis,"  said  Foncette,  ex- 
citedly ;  "  it  is  very  evident. " 

"  Madame  is  right,  M.  de  Nolongue,  and  be- 
cause I  like  you  I  am  going  to  give  you  good 


loS    CLEVEREST  OF  PARISIAN  ACTRESSES. 

advice  :  throw  that  thing  into  the  fire.  You  are 
ungrateful  to  fate.  Just  think  of  it !  Nature 
has  done  for  you  what  she  does  for  very  few  peo- 
ple ;  she  has  given  you  the  means  of  appearing 
grave,  serious,  profoundly  thoughtful,  without 
effort,  and  you  thwart  nature.  You  do  not 
know  how  many  people  owe  their  fortune  to 
the  absence  of  that  vain  ornament  that  caused 
Absalom's  death." 

Assured  by  the  actress'  kindly  smile,  Louis 
ventured  to  say :  "  My  wife  is  of  your  opinion, 
madame,  and  I  should  be  glad  to  submit  to  your 
and  her  good  judgment,  if  it  were  possible." 

"Why,  is  it  impossible?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  But  my  vanity  made  me  conceal, 
and  I  thought  I  had  succeeded  in  hiding,  this — 
favor  of  nature;  if  I  were  suddenly  to  make 
such  a  public  avowal,  I  should  subject  myself 
to  retrospective  ridicule,  for  everybody  knows 
that  one  does  not  become  bald  in  a  single 
night." 

"  No,"  murmured  the  actress,  under  her 
breath,  "  but  sometimes  in  a  single  day !  " 

"  What  are  you  saying  so  softly,  madame  ?  " 

"  That  I  have  found  a  means  of  saving  the 


CLEVEREST  OF  PARISIAN  ACTRESSES.    109 

situation,  which  will  give  you  confidence  in  my 
ability  in  the  affair  of  The  Viper." 

"And  what  is  this  means,  madame?  " 

"  I  want  to  surprise  you  with  it.  Read  the 
papers  very  early  to-morrow  morning,  and  act 
in  accordance.  Good-by;  do  not  forget  my 
dinner  on  Sunday,  nor  the  morning  papers. 
You  are  good  people." 

M.  and  Mme.  de  Nolongue  went  away  very 
much  puzzled.  All  the  next  morning's  papers 
contained  the  following,  which  evidently  had 
been  communicated  to  them  by  the  Prefecture 
of  Police : 

"  The  fire  yesterday  in  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Antoine  gave  rise  to  a  most  dramatic  incident. 
A  six-year-old  child  had  taken  refuge  on  a  roof 
that  had  just  caught  fire,  when  a  brave  citizen, 
the  Baron  de  Nolongue,  seizing  a  ladder,  rushed 
to  the  little  one's  rescue  and  carried  it  through 
the  flames.  The  child  escaped  quite  scathless; 
her  valiant  deliverer  was  not  seriously  injured, 
but  his  luxuriant  hair  was  entirely  consumed  as 
he  ran  through  the  flames.  The  learned  Dr. 
X.  declares  that  the  Baron  Louis  de  Nolongue 
will  be  bald  to  the  end  of  his  days.  The 


no    CLEVEREST  OF  PARISIAN  ACTRESSES. 

memory  of   his   noble  deed   will  be   his    best 
consolation." 

Louis  de  Nolongue  and  his  wife  understood 
the  meaning  of  this  article,  and  he  could  no 
longer  resist  complying  with  her  wishes.  More- 
over, it  brought  him  good  fortune,  and,  antici- 
pating events,  we  give  here  the  result  of  this 
adventure.  The  baron's  bravery  made  quite  a 
sensation.  A  learned  man  recalled  in  one  of 
the  principal  papers  the  Latin  poem  written 
by  a  monk  in  honor  of  Charles  the  Bald,  each 
word  of  which  began  with  C : 

"  Carmina,  clarisonse,  clavis  cantate,  camenre." 

The  young  baron's  heroism  made  him  very 
popular,  and  a  few  months  later  he  was  elected 
deputy  from  his  district.  Baron  Louis  de  No- 
longue is  to-day  the  handsomest  bald-head  in 
the  Chamber  of  Deputies. 


CHAPTER   V. 

PREPARATIONS    FOR    THE    SPECIAL    SCENE. 

MARIA  ORFANO,  while  awaiting  her  guests, 
sat  in  the  large  drawing-room  of  her  handsome 
house  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  attentively  reading 
the  famous  article  in  The  Viper  that  the  Baron 
de  Nolongue  had  sent  her.  So  deeply  was  she 
absorbed,  she  seemed  to  be  learning  it  by  heart. 

"  I  am  determined  to  succeed  in  this  affair. 
The  thing  amuses  me ;  it  is  delightful  to  punish 
the  author  of  an  evil  deed  by  doing  a  good  one. 
But  I  shall  find  it  difficult,  for  whoever  wrote 
this  article  ought  to  be  wary  of  the  police,  and 
poachers  do  not  like  to  let  themselves  be 
trapped;  but  chance  aids  the  vigilant  police." 

The  celebrated  actress'  guests  arrived 
promptly.  As  all  the  others  were  acquaint- 
ances, Maria  Orfano  had  only  the  Baron  Louis 
de  Nolongue  to  present.  Louis  was  well- 
known  from  the  account  given  of  the  fire  in 


H2     PREPARATIONS  FOR    SPECIAL    SCENE. 

the  Faubourg  Saint  -  Antoine,  and  the  late 
hero's  baldness  was  admired  by  the  fifteen 
journalists  on  the  faith  of  the  daily  papers. 
Thus  is  fame  acquired- 

As  this  assemblage  of  fifteen,  consisting  of 
journalists,  dramatic  authors,  novelists,  and 
poets  sat  at  table,  they,  truth  to  tell,  in  nowise 
differed  in  appearance  from  a  reunion  of  no- 
taries, brokers,  deputies,  millionaires,  or  engi- 
neers. The  managing  editor  of  The  Viper,  fac- 
ing the  hostess,  presided  with  a  dignity  the 
president  of  the  Senate  might  envy,  and  the 
editor  of  The  Court  Calendar  was  as  solemn  as 
the  Procureur- General  of  the  Court  of  Appeals. 
It  was  the  fault  of  the  white  cravats ;  the  habit 
makes  the  monk. 

This  solemnity  did  not  enter  into  the  ac- 
tress' plans.  After  the  soup  and  one  or  two 
courses,  seeing  that  her  choice  Madeira  did  not 
succeed  in  making  her  guests  unbend,  she  took 
up  the  conversation. 

"  Gentlemen,  illustrious  representatives  of 
the  source  of  literary  news,  you  think  you  are, 
or  at  least  call  yourselves,  Republicans,  but  you 
are  in  reality  the  officials  of  the  future  mon- 


PREPARATIONS  FOR   SPECIAL    SCENE.      113 

archy.  I  have  known  chamberlains  under  the 
Empire  less  majestic  than  you.  This  is  antic- 
ipating the  future  too  much ;  take  advantage 
of  the  Republic  while  it  exists,  and  be  hilarious 
and  triumphant.  Are  you  Republicans  ?  Yes, 
or  no  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  several  voices. 

"  Then  why  are  you  so  solemn  ?  Why  these 
prudent  glances,  these  discreet  expressions? 
Are  you,  perchance,  candidates  for  the  French 
Academy?  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  exclaimed  all  the  guests. 

"  Thank  you,  gentlemen ;  I  see  I  have  touched 
a  responsive  chord.  My  dear  president,  call 
upon  one  of  these  orators  for  a  speech." 

"  I  obey,  my  dear  Celimene.  I  propose  that 
the  brilliant  writer  for  The  Viper,  Pierre  Robes, 
give  us  a  speech.  Mount  the  rostrum,  my  good 
friend." 

"  If  my  chief  will  give  me  a  subject ;  I  speak 
or  write  only  under  orders." 

"  Very  well ;  you  have  just  finished  a  com- 
edy. Tell  us  of  your  first  appearance  on  the 
stage." 

"None  of  that;    if  the  plot   of    the    piece 


H4     PREPARATIONS  FOR   SPECIAL    SCENE. 

should  evaporate,  it  would  make  our  neighbors 
sneeze." 

"  Metaphor  aside,  you  fear  the  plagiarists  ;  you 
flatter  yourself,  but  I  understand.  Let  us  try 
another  subject.  Why  do  you  call  yourself 
Pierre  Robes  ?  That  is  an  uncommon  name." 

"  It  is,  in  fact,  a  pseudonym." 

"And  why  did  you  choose  it?" 

"  Because  I  was  refused  the  baccalaureate 
degree." 

"  Tell  us  about  it,"  said  Mana,  very  gra- 
ciously. 

"  It  is  a  melancholy  memory,  dear  madame, 
but  I  shall  comply  with  your  request  in  a  mo- 
ment. This  salmon-trout  will  fortify  me  for 
the  task." 

The  actress  in  the  meantime  carefully  stud- 
ied the  young  writer.  Pierre  Robes  was  a  pale, 
bilious-looking  bachelor  of  thirty;  his  hair  was 
thin  on  brow  and  temple,  his  eyes  small  but 
full  of  fire;  he  had  distended  nostrils,  and  a 
cynical  expression  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
When  he  had  finished  his  trout,  he  continued : 

"  This  is  the  story,  madame.  When  I  was 
seventeen  my  father  wished  me  to  obtain  the 


PREPARATIONS  FOR   SPECIAL.  SCENE.      115 

degree  of  bachelor  of  arts.  I  presented  myself, 
accordingly,  to  the  Faculty  of  Paris.  I  had  al- 
ready a  leaning  towards  literature,  but  I  was  as 
ignorant  as  that  trout  before  he  was  caught. 
However,  I  did  not  make  such  a  poor  show  in 
Greek  and  Latin,  but  I  was  perfectly  at  sea  in 
French  history,  and  I  floundered  shamefully 
among  the  Valois.  The  professor,  losing  all 
patience,  said:  'Let  us  see  if  you  can  do  any 
better  with  the  French  Revolution.  Do  you 
know  the  name  of  the  man  who  had  Danton 
guillotined?'  I  had  no  idea  who  it  was,  but 
the  pupil  behind  me  whispered,  'Robespierre.' 
Not  to  appear  too  ignorant,  I  would  not  repeat 
the  name  just  as  he  whispered  it,  and  I  answered, 
'  Pierre  Robes ! '  A  shout  of  laughter  rang 
through  the  room,  and  I  was  rejected." 

"  And  this  gave  you  the  idea  of  taking " 

"  Not  so  fast.  I  left  France  and  went  every- 
where to  seek  my  fortune  under  my  own  name. 
I  traversed  the  shores  of  Italy,  Russia,  and 
America;  but  the  sea  is  rough,  so  I  returned 
to  France  five  years  ago  and  plunged  into  jour- 
nalism. My  father  forbade  my  signing  our 
name  to  my  articles." 


u6     PREPARATIONS  FOR    SPECIAL    SCENE. 

"Why?" 

"Provincial  prejudice;  he  feared  the  family 
name  might  be  compromised  by  what  I  wrote." 

"  What  is  this  name  ?  " 

"  Lebon." 

"  Like  the  Sergeant  in  'Tartufe.'  " 

"  You  have  no  idea  how  near  you  are  to 
facts;  my  father  is  a  sergeant." 

"Then,"  said  Maria  Orfano,  laughing,  "you 
are  perhaps  descended  from  the  Sergeant  in 
'Tartufe'  ?" 

"  That  has  never  been  proved.  In  short,  I 
know  not  why  I  took  this  pseudonym,  except 
that  the  remembrance  of  my  ignominious  failure 
to  obtain  a  baccalaureate  amused  me ;  and  now 
my  name  is  Pierre  Robes,  and  those  who  think 
that  I  do  not  do  credit  to  it  would  do  well 
not  to  say  so." 

"  No  one  would  say  it,  my  dear  sir ;  no  one. 
And  the  comedy  of  which  we  were  just  now 
speaking  will,  no  doubt,  add  new  lustre  to  the 
name." 

"  One  never  knows,  madame." 

Not  wishing  to  let  the  conversation  flag,  she 
kept  up  the  dialogue  with  the  writer,  with 


PREPARATIONS  FOR   SPECIAL   SCENE.      117 

her  bright  eyes  all  the  while  steadily  fixed  upon 
him. 

"  Speaking  of  comedy,  M,  Pierre  Robes,  I 
shall  give  you  a  point :  Salemberry  promises 
us  a  new  play  for  next  winter." 

"The  deuce!" 

"  That  annoys  you  ?  " 

"  No,  but  it  makes  me  anxious  for  him." 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

"  Oh,  yes !  after  the  immense  success  of  'The 
Poisonous  Fang '  the  public  will  be  very  exact- 
ing. With  all  due  respect  to  de  Salemberry, 
were  I  in  his  place  I  should  hereafter  write 
only  poems,  metrical  dramas,  or  tragedies." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right.  So  you  admire  de 
Salemberry's  poems  and  dramas  very  much?  " 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  them ;  I  look  up  to  them, 
but  I  could  no  more  rise  to  their  height  than  I 
could  mount  the  obelisk." 

"  If  the  obelisk  were  to  fall,  would  you  be  very 
sorry?  " 

"  I  could  measure  it  more  conveniently,  that 
is  all." 

Maria  Orfano,  feeling  that  Pierre  Robes' 
inquisition  had  lasted  long  enough,  turned  to 


n8     PREPARATIONS  FOR    SPECIAL    SCENE. 

the  other  guests  and  addressed  a  few  remarks 
consecutively  to  each  one,  thus  making  the  con- 
versation very  animated. 

At  dessert,  the  actress  again  addressed  the 
writer : 

"  You  do  not  take  fruit,  M.  Robes  ?  You 
make  a  mistake — '  TJie  duchess'  pears  are  not  the 
least  tender  !  ' >: 

And  she  emphasized  the  phrase  with  her 
loveliest  smile. 

"  Where  have  I  read  that  phrase?  "  asked  the 
journalist  in  reply.  "Ah,  yes,  I  remember;  in 
an  article  in  The  Viper,  four  years  ago.  It 
made  sensation  enough,  did  that  same  article." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  and  I  have  never  been  able  to 
discover  the  author,"  said  the  director  of  The 
Viper.  "  The  reader,  short  of  copy,  took  it  at 
random  from  the  box  of  manuscript  and  printed 
it  to  fill  a  space.  No,  I  am  mistaken ;  he  found 
it  on  the  form,  all  printed.  But  no  one  ever 
knew  who  gave  it  to  the  compositor.  I  remem- 
ber, now,  charging  Pierre  Robes,  who  had  just 
taken  a  place  on  the  paper,  to  inquire  into  the 
subject;  do  you  remember  it,  Robes?  " 

"  Perfectly;  but  all  my  efforts  were*  in  vain." 


PREPARA  TIONS  FOR   SPECIAL    SCENE.      I  i  9 

"  You  are  acting  very  shrewdly,  my  dear  M. 
Robes,"  said  the  actress,  rising. 

As  they  entered  the  drawing-room,  where 
coffee  was  served,  Maria  Orfano  made  a  sign 
to  Baron  Louis  de  Nolongue,  drew  him  a  little 
aside,  and,  glancing  toward  Pierre  Robes, 
said : 

"There  is  the  author  of  the  article." 

''Is  it  possible?     How  have  you  made ' 

"  Nothing  simpler;  I  made  him  talk  a  great 
deal,  as  you  may  have  noticed.  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  commit  parts  to  memory,  so  I  learned 
this  famous  article  almost  by  heart,  you  see. 
Then  I  have  been  much  in  the  society  of  jour- 
nalists and  writers,  and  I  long  ago  observed 
that  they  speak  very  much  as  they  write.  The 
construction  of  the  phrase  is  the  same;  the 
source  of  ideas,  opinions,  and  sentiments  is 
the  same.  My  suspicions  were  aroused  by  M. 
Robes'  first  words,  and  that  remark  about  the 
obelisk  convinced  me  without  anything  else. 
That  is  all  for  the  present;  'continued  in  our 
next  number.'  " 

The  actress  approached  Pierre  Robes  and 
said : 


120      PREPARATIONS  FOR   SPECIAL    SCENE. 

"  Your  story  interests  me  deeply,  my  dear  M. 
Robes,  and  I  should  like  to  be  of  service  to 
you." 

"  Madame,"  said  the  journalist,  all  smiles 
and  bowing  profoundly. 

"  For  what  theatre  is  your  comedy  intended  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  offer  it  to  Jacques  Alen- 
gon " 

"  My  manager?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  do  not  know  him,  and  you 
know — 

"  I  shall  give  you  a  letter;  you  will  send  it  to 
him  to-morrow  with  your  manuscript,  and  you 
will  go  to  see  him  the  next  day  at  noon.  Do 
not  forget. " 

"  I  shall  be  very  sure  to  be  there  on  time." 

"  Is  there  a  part  for  me  in  your  play?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  That  may  serve  to  influence  Jacques'  deci- 
sion. But  I  must  warn  you  that  he  is  not  a  man 
easy  to  manage.  You  must  do  everything  he 
may  ask  you — that  is,  if  you  are  desirous  of 
having  your  play  acted." 

"  Desirous  !  as  I  am  of  retaining  life. " 

"  Good;   I  see  you  have  no  taste  for  suicide; 


PREPARATIONS  FOR   SPECIAL    SCENE.      121 

so  much  the  better.  I  pledge  myself  to  see  this 
through." 

The  charming  woman,  looking  after  Robes  as 
he  left,  said  to  herself,  smiling  with  inward  joy  : 

"  I  was  not  sure  that  the  scene  could  be 
made, — but  it  is  made." 


CHAPTER   VI. 

A    THEATRICAL    MANAGER'S    RUSE. 

JACQUES  ALENCON  received  Maria  Orfano  in 
his  private  office ;  at  five  minutes  to  twelve  she 
arose  to  take  leave  of  her  manager. 

"  Well,  you  promise  me  to  do  all  that,  my 
dear  manager?  " 

"  Yes,  my  charming  star ;  I  like  to  serve  good 
people." 

"'Being  one  myself,'  you  might  add,  as  in 
'The  King  Amuses  Himself.'  You,  at  least, 
understand  perfectly?  " 

"  That  is  a  courteous  question." 

"  I  mean,  do  you  remember  all  the  points  ?  " 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes  !  Stephen — Salemberry — the 
mother,  the  sister — the  husband  with  the  wig 
—  The  Viper— the  journalist.  What  an  excel- 
lent title  for  a  fable :  'The  Viper  and  the  Jour- 
nalist ' ! " 

122 


A    THEATRICAL   MANAGER'S  RUSE.      123 

"Do  not  jest,  but  attend  to  our  affairs;  you 
promise  me  again " 

"  You  distrust  me?  " 

"  Always." 

"  In  this  instance  you  will  be  mistaken." 

"  It  is  twelve.  I  escape  by  the  door  to  the 
left ;  our  man  enters  by  the  door  on  the  right. 
You  remain  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
in  front  of  the  fireplace.  Very  good  stage-set- 
ting. An  revoir,"  she  called  back,  disappearing 
at  left,  as  she  said. 

Jacques  Alengon  was  a  refined,  handsome, 
distinguished-looking  man  of  about  sixty, 
charming  as  a  man  of  the  world,  but  fierce 
as  a  manager.  His  ferocity,  however,  was  only 
a  mask  which  he  assumed  at  will  when  it  was 
necessary;  he  could  with  equal  facility  as- 
sume the  mask  of  amiability,  as  well  as  that  of 
impassiveness. 

He  chose  the  latter  in  which  to  receive  Pierre 
Robes. 

"  Be  seated,  sir,  and  let  us  discuss  this  matter 
seriously.  What  do  you  think  of  your  play?  " 

"  What  do  I  think  of  my  play  ?  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  it  is  you  who " 


124     A    THEATRICAL   MANAGER'S  RUSE. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  sir ;  I  think  it  very  im- 
portant to  know  an  author's  opinion  of  his  work ; 
when  I  may  believe,  a  priori,  that  he  is  a  writer 
of  considerable  merit." 

"  Really,  sir,  I  think  if  you  had  found  it  very 
bad  you  would  have  told  me  so  at  once." 

"  I  do  not  decide  things  so  quickly.  No,  M. 
Robes,  a  piece  may  not  be  bad,  yet  despite  that 
it  may  not  be  good.  These  very  cases  are  the 
most  troublesome  to  a  manager." 

"  Is  this  the  case  with  my  comedy?  " 

"  I  admit  that  it  is  not  bad,  and  at  times  I 
am  inclined  to  think,  too,  that  perhaps  it  is 
rather  good. " 

"  Then  you  will  have  it  played  ?  " 

"  Your  piece,  as  it  is  now,  would  be  a  good 
deal  of  an  undertaking, — quite  a  troublesome 
affair." 

"  It  is  only  three  short  acts !  " 

"  There  are  no  short  acts ;  in  fact,  all  three 
are  twice  too  long." 

"  It  is  not  bad  to  have  abundant  material." 

"When  the  material  is  solid." 

"  Is  mine  ?  " 

"Things  are  tested  by  use." 


A    THEATRICAL  MANAGER'S  RUSE.      125 

"  Finally,  sir,  do  you  intend  to  have  my  piece 
played  ?  " 

"  I  do,  and  I  do  not ;  it  may  be,  and  it  may 
not  be  played." 

"  What  a  sphinx  you  are !  " 

"  That  is  my  profession." 

"  In  short,  what  do  we  decide  ?  " 

"  That  you  will  reduce  your  work  to  half  its 
present  dimensions ;  that  done,  you  will  bring 
it  to  me.  ' 

"  I  understand,  and  I  thank  you,  for  you  seem 
to  be  interested  in  me." 

"  Am  I  wrong?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  a  bad  sort  of  a  devil,  after 
all." 

"  Then  you  may  be  made  an  angel." 

"  With  difficulty.     I  am  a  queer  body." 

"  A  queer  body — who  has  many  skeletons." 

"They  are  well  buried;  that  is  enough,"  re- 
plied Pierre  Robes,  laughing.  As  he  rose  to 
leave,  Jacques  Alenc,on  accompanied  him  to  the 
door,  and,  scrutinizing  him  closely  with  his 
penetrating  eye,  said,  in  a  serious  tone : 

"  By  the  way,  M.  Robes,  I  have  a  favor  to 
ask  of  you. " 


126     A    THEATRICAL   MANAGER'S  RUSE. 

"  Speak,  prince ;  your  highness " 

"  My  highness,  for  very  particular  reasons, 
wishes  to  know  the  author  of  an  unsigned 
article." 

"  That  may  be  ascertained.  What  day  did 
the  article  appear?  " 

"  Four  years  ago." 

"  The  deuce  !     And  in  what  paper?  " 

"In  The  Viper:' 

"  We  are  getting  warm.  The  subject  of  the 
article?  " 

"  A  rather  disparaging  depreciation  of  Robert 
de  Salemberry's  works." 

"Ah,  yes;   I  know  the  article." 

"  It  is  the  name  of  the  author  that  I  want  to 
know." 

"What  for?" 

"  To  tell  it  to  M.  de  Salemberry,  and  thus 
prove  that  he  made  a  mistake  in  attacking  such 
a  good,  loyal  fellow  as  Stephen  de  Fleurigny." 

Pierre  Robes  was  silent  a  moment,  then  said  : 

"  If  I  succeed  in  discovering  the  name  you 
are  seeking,  I  should  much  prefer  to  tell  it 
to  Salemberry  myself." 

"There  is  no  objection  to  that.     When  you 


A    THEATRICAL  MANAGER'S  RUSE.      127 

have  discovered  it  you  will  write  and  tell  it  to 
Salemberry." 

"  And  then  ?  " 

"  Then,  you  will  bring  me  Robert  de  Salem- 
berry's  answer,  and  at  the  same  time  your 
revised  comedy." 

"  And  you  will  then  decide  in  favor  of  my 
comedy  ? " 

"  Probably." 

"An  revoir,  then;  I  go  to  commence  my 
search." 

"  Do  not  unearth  too  many  skeletons,  young 
man;  one  will  be  sufficient  for  me,  but  soon." 

Pierre  Robes  went  away  quite  perplexed, 
thoughtfully  murmuring  to  himself: 

"A  sword-thrust  is  a  very  disagreeable 
thing — granted;  but  it  is  a  very  gratifying 
thing  to  have  a  grand  piece  played.  It  will  be 
difficult  to  cope  with  these  good  little  comrades. 
This  Jacques  Alengon  is  a  sly  dog;  what  a 
minister  of  foreign  affairs  he  would  make ;  I 
am  determined  to  fathom  this  idea.  And  Maria 
Orfano,  what  an  artful  creature — no  matter. 
But  this  prospective  sword-thrust — bah  !  " 

When  Robes  reached  his  modest  apartment, 


128      A    THEATRICAL   MANAGER'S  RUSE. 

he  sharpened  his  finest  quill,  and  in  a  firm  hand 
wrote  the  following  letter  to  Robert  de  Salem- 
berry : 

"  Illustrious  Master. 

"  SIR  : — I  am  about  to  render  you  a  service 
at  my  own  risk  and  peril.  For  reasons  entirely 
personal,  I  have  been  most  anxious  to  discover 
the  author  of  an  article  that  appeared  several 
years  ago  in  The  Viper,  in  which  your  talents  and 
character  were  not  treated  with  the  deference 
they  deserve.  I  have  succeeded  in  this  quest. 

"  The  author  in  question  is  one  of  my  most 
intimate  friends.  You  may  not  have  forgotten 
the  journey  and  visit  you  made  to  Florence 
about  five  years  ago,  where  you  received  a  most 
flattering  reception  from  the  Duke  and  Duchess 
of  X.  Well,  my  friend  had  some  cause  of 
complaint  against  the  duke,  but  especially 
against  the  duchess.  With  your  leave,  I  shall 
not  press  this  point. 

"  My  friend,  whom  you  do  not  know,  and 
who,  moreover,  has,  since  then,  changed  his 
name,  conceived  a  feeling  of  hatred  for  you, 
that  I  do  not  attempt  to  justify.  The  desire 


A    THEATRICAL  MANAGER'S  RUSE.     129 

to  revenge  himself  was  the  motive  that  impelled 
him  to  commit  this  injustice;  hence  this  de- 
plorable article,  for  which  he  now  blushes, 
and  that  double-meaning  phrase, ' the  ducliess 
pears,'  which  was  meant  to  wound  you  by 
wounding  another. 

"  This  was  not  the  only  wrong  my  friend 
perpetrated.  Public  rumor  accused  M.  Stephen 
de  Fleurigny  of  having  written  this  doubly 
culpable  article.  My  friend  did  nothing  to 
contradict  this  false  accusation — perhaps  even 
helped  to  spread  it. 

"  In  now  making  this  tardy  acknowledgment 
of  his  long- concealed  double  offence,  my  friend 
understands  that  he  must  accept  the  conse- 
quences. 

"  Unfortunately,  his  state  of  health  will  not 
permit  him  to  fight  a  duel,  but  I  have  decided 
to  be  his  substitute,  and  I  am  at  your  disposi- 
tion. 

"  Assuming,  then,  that  the  offender  is  none 
other  than  Pierre  Robes, 

"  Accept,  illustrious  sir,  etc., 
"  PIERRE  ROBES, 

"  Editor  of  The  Viper. " 
9 


13°      A    THEATRICAL  MANAGER'S  RUSE. 

Two  days  later,  Pierre  Robes  received  the 
following  reply : 

"  SIR  : — The  service  you  have  rendered  me  in 
showing  me  the  truth  makes  me  forget  all  else. 
I  must  decline  your  offer  to  act  as  substitute 
for  your  friend ;  if  he  ends  better  than  he 
began,  he  will  have  a  narrow  escape. 

"  Believe  me,  sir,  with  the  very  divers  sen- 
timents with  which  you  inspire  me, 

"  ROBERT  DE  SALEMBERRY.  " 

Pierre  Robes  showed  this  letter  to  Jacques 
Alengon.  The  manager  and  the  actress  kept 
their  piomise,  the  writer's  piece  was  played, 
and  had  even  a  certain  amount  of  success. 
Literary  success  is  sometimes  blind,  like  victory 
and  military  fame. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    REAL    VICTIM. 

IT  would  be  difficult  to  depict  Robert  de 
Salemberry's  overwhelming  despair.  Every 
word  of  Pierre  Robes'  letter  went  to  his 
heart  like  a  knife. 

Let  us  not  make  our  hero  seem  better  than 
he  was ;  his  pride  was  what  suffered  most  in 
this  affair. 

"  Well,  I  was  deceived ;  I  made  a  serious 
mistake  in  laying  the  offence  to  the  charge  of 
one  who  was  not  at  all  to  blame.  My  logic 
misled  me  into  striking  a  false  blow.  My 
judgment  was  at  fault  and  swerved  from  the 
path  of  justice.  I  knew  not  why  Stephen  re- 
fused to  defend  himself,  but  I  ought  to  have 
guessed.  Believing  that  I  was  punishing 
treachery,  I  committed  a  great  wrong.  There 
are  two  men  in  the  world  who  knew  it.  Stephen 
may  despise  me,  Pierre  Robes  must  laugh ;  he 


13-  THE  REAL    VICTIM. 

has  made  me  a  laughing-stock.  He  is  the 
wretch  who  made  me  rush  into  this  attack  upon 
an  innocent  man.  Hercules  wages  war  on  a 
pigmy ;  it  has  been  a  very  stupid  affair.  Why 
are  such  things  permitted  ?  Sagacity  and  in- 
fallibility should  always  accompany  ability  and 
intelligence.  What  am  I  to  do  now  ?  What 
can  I  do?  My  aunt  builded  better  than  she 
thought  with  her  'Game  of  Virtues ':  'Repair 
the  injury  that  has  been  done.'  One  might 
believe  that  she  had  prescience.  It  is  strange 
that  she,  as  well  as  M.  and  Mme.  de  Nolongue 
and  Maria  Orfano  in  Paris,  everybody  in  fact, 
judged  more  justly  than  I.  It  is  humiliat- 
ing. Of  what  avail  are  talents,  knowledge  of 
the  human  heart,  reputation,  fame?  Oh,  that 
dreadful  comedy !  that  hideous  title,  '  The 
Poisonous  Fang/  that  I  thought  so  much  of, 
and  considered  so  good !  What  misery  it  all 
is  now !  " 

Robert,  rinding  at  hand  a  copy  of  his  play, 
shuddered  at  sight  of  it  and  threw  the  book  aside. 

"  I  cannot  remain  quiet  with  these  thoughts ; 
I  must  act.  First,  I  shall  go  find  my  aunt ; 
she  will  give  me  good  advice. " 


THE   REAL    VICTIM,  133 

Robert  hurried  down  from  his  room  in  the 
castle  tower,  but  was  told  that  Madame  de  Rille 
had  just  gone  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mme.  and  Mile. 
de  Fleurigny. 

"  With  Stephen's  mother  and  sister.  I  should 
have  been  there  long  ago. " 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  illustrious  nephew  ?  " 
exclaimed  the  marquise,  as  Robert  entered  Ma- 
dame de  Fleurigny's  drawing-room.  "  Have  you 
had  another  fight  with  the  gypsies  ?  You  are 
as  pale — 

"  Mile,  de  Fleurigny,"  said  Robert,  "will  you 
kindly  read  this  letter  to  these  ladies  ?  I  have 
not  the  courage  to  do  it  myself. " 

Gilberte  read  Pierre  Robes'  letter  slowly,  in 
a  tremulous  voice  in  which  joy  and  surprise 
were  mingled. 

A  prolonged  silence  followed  the  reading  of 
the  letter,  during  which  Robert  waited  with 
downcast  eyes ;  no  one  dared  utter  a  word. 

Finally,  the  Marquise  de  Rille  said : 

"  Nephew,  I  ask  pardon  for  you  from  Madame 
de  Fleurigny,  her  daughter,  and  from  her  ab- 
sent son,  Stephen.  As  for  you,  be  your  own 
judge." 


134  THE  REAL    VICTIM. 

"  I  have  already  judged  and  condemned 
myself,  aunt. " 

"  That  is  not  enough ;  you  must  now  repair 
the  injury  you  inflicted." 

"  I  am  ready  to  do  all  in  my  power. " 

"  What  do  you  intend  to  do?  " 

"  First,  I  shall  write  to  the  papers ;  pub- 
licly acknowledge  that  I  was  mistaken,  and 
that  I  attacked  the  best  and  noblest  of 
friends. " 

"  Pardon  me,  M.  de  Salemberry,"  inter- 
rupted Gilbcrte,  "  but  that  would  be  publish- 
ing that  the  odiously  ridiculous  character  placed 
by  you  upon  the  stage  was  really  intended  to 
represent  Stephen.  That  would  only  establish 
the  fact  and  aggravate  the  injury." 

"That  is  true,  Mile,  de  Fleurighy;  what  can 
1  do  then  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  my  child ;  if  M.  de 
Salemberry  has  no  objection,  that  letter,  at 
least,  might  be  sent  to  Stephen. " 

"  I  was  going  to  beg  you  to  do  so,  madame ; 
only  allow  me  to  add  a  line  to  the  letter. " 

Robert,  taking  a  pen  from  the  table,  wrote 


THE  REAL    VICTIM,  135 

at  the  end  of  the  last  page :  "Will  you  ever 
forgive  me,  Stephen?  " 

"Very  well,  M.  de  Salemberry;  I  shall  write 
to  my  son." 

"  While  you  are  writing,  mother,  allow  me 
a  few  moments'  private  conversation  with  M. 
Robert." 

"  Do  as  you  wish,  my  child;  you  are  always 
right." 

Gilberte  led  Robert  to  her  favorite  summer- 
house  in  the  garden. 

"  You  must  know  all,  M.  de  Salemberry,  but 
I  have  no  right  to  speak  before  your  aunt  of  a 
secret  known  only  to  my  mother,  Stephen,  and 
to  me. "  The  young  girl  hesitated  an  instant, 
the  habitual,  fixed  expression  of  her  eyes  was 
replaced  by  a  sudden  flash,  and  she  continued 
in  a  trembling  voice : 

"  You  think,  no  doubt,  M.  de  Salemberry, 
that  your  attack  upon  Stephen  merely  wounded 
his  self-love,  and  lessened  his  reputation  as  a 
poet;  that  would  have  been  nothing,  for,  after 
all,  these  things  retrieve  themselves  and  are 
soon  forgotten.  You  inflicted  a  much  more  ir- 
reparable injury  upon  my  brother.  He  loved, 


I36  THE  REAL    VICTIM. 

and  was  to  marry  a  young  lady,  Isabel le  d' Acerac, 
daughter  of  the  general.  When  your  piece  was 
played,  her  father  went  to  Stephen  and  insisted 
upon  his  challenging  you,  which  my  brother  re- 
fused to  do ;  and  yet  you  know  how  brave  Ste- 
phen is  ;  but  you  know  how  good  he  is  also,  and 
that  he  does  not  agree  with  the  world  on  cer- 
tain subjects.  He  is  a  saint !  The  engagement 
was  broken  and  Isabelle  married  another. " 

"Oh,  just  Heaven!"  exclaimed  Robert;  "if 
I  had  known. " 

Tears  welled  to  the  young  man's  eyes. 

"  It  astonishes  me  to  see  tears  in  your  eyes, 
sir;  I  considered  you  hard-hearted — yes,  very 
hard-hearted.  I  have  seen  my  dear,  noble 
brother  weep  before  I  saw  your  tears.  He 
would  not  add  to  my  mother's  suffering  by 
grieving  before  her,  but  he  told  me  of  his  ten- 
der love  for  Isabelle,  and  his  sobs  and  despair- 
ing anguish  broke  my  heart.  Ah !  may  you 
suffer  thus  some  day,  for  you  deserve  it.  And 
while  he  wept,  you  were  enjoying  your  horri- 
ble triumph,  listening  to  the  public  sneers  and 
laughter ;  hearing  the  noble  name  of  your  friend 
vilified,  bandied  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and 


THE  REAL    VICTIM.  137 

those  malicious  people  calling  him  'that  poor 
Stephen. '  This  was  pleasant  to  you,  and  you 
had  even  a  baser  gratification  from  it ;  you  made 
money  by  your  perfidious,  vindictive  work;  yes, 
in  the  evening  you  counted  your  money,  the 
gold  and  the  bank-notes  the  cashier  brought 
you  from  the  theatre,  and  said,  'This  is  good; 
friends  are  lucrative. '  " 

"  Oh,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny !  "  exclaimed  Rob- 
ert, pale  with  emotion. 

"  What  I  say  wounds  you ;  so  much  the  bet- 
ter. I  am  not  gentle  and  ready  to  forgive,  like 
my  brother.  No ;  in  his  place  I  should  have 
done  as  the  general  wished.  I  should  have 
challenged  you — I  should  have  killed  you — I 
should  have  silenced  your  ironical,  disdainful 
lips  forever.  And  the  other  day,  in  the  woods, 
when  those  men  were  about  to  pound  you  to 
death  with  their  stones,  hatchets,  and  hammers, 
I  was  on  the  point  of  letting  them  do  it.  I  did 
save  you ;  I  told  you  that  I  did  not,  but  it  is 
true — I  saved  you.  Why?  I  know  not,  ex- 
cept it  seemed  to  me  that  Stephen  was  there 
and  called  to  me,  '  Save  him  !  save  him ! '  But 
I  cannot  always  be  generous  like  him;  I  have 


I38  THE  REAL    VICTIM. 

all  this  in  my  heart,  and  I  must  cast  it  in  your 
face.  Now,  go ;  before  the  world,  I  shall  be- 
have towards  you  as  a  well-bred  young  girl  should 
towards  a  clever  man ;  but  you  know  how  I  feel 
at  heart.  Good-morning,  sir;  leave  me. " 

"  Mile,  de  Fleurigny,  you  are  more  cruel  than 
I  have  been,"  replied  Robert,  as  he  turned  to  go. 

That  same  evening  Gilberte  received  an  en- 
velope bearing  the  stamp  of  the  Bureau  for  the 
Relief  of  the  Poor,  and  containing  a  copy  of  a 
paper  on  file  at  that  office : 

"  Received  of  M.  de  Salemberry  the  sum  of 
1 10,000  francs,  the  entire  receipts  from  his 
rights  in  the  comedy,  'The  Poisonous  Fang.' 
According  to  the  intention  of  the  donor,  this 
sum  will  be  distributed  among  the  poor  of 
Paris. 

"  COMMISSIONER  OF   PUBLIC    RELIEF. 

"PARIS,  Decembers,  1875." 

The  date  of  this  receipt  coincided  with  the 
last  representation  of  "  The  Poisonous  Fang," 
three  years  before. 

"  Ah,"  thought  Gilberte,  "  I,  too,  have  been 
hard  and  unjust,  but  in  this  only." 


THE  REAL    VICTIM.  139 

The  hardness  and  injustice  of  which  Gilberte 
accused  herself  was  of  benefit  to  Robert  in  his 
present  state  of  mind.  What  he  took  most  to 
heart,  what  completely  overwhelmed  him,  was 
the  dreadful  reproach  of  having  gained  money,  ac- 
quired fortune,  filled  his  coffers  with  the  profits 
of  his  iniquitous  work.  Nothing  helps  us  to 
comprehend  the  wrong  we  do  others  like  a  sim- 
ilar wrong  done  to  us.  The  shock,  while  wound- 
ing us,  teaches  us  in  return  a  useful  lesson. 

"  I  appreciate  now  what  Stephen  must  have 
suffered  when  I  accused  him  to  his  face  so 
cruelly  and  unjustly.  I  understand  how  it  was 
that  he  could  not  defend  himself;  I  could  find 
no  answer  to  Gilberte's  bitter  reproaches  yester- 
day, and  if  I  had  not  found  the  proof  of  my  in- 
nocence on  that  point  she  would  still  believe 
that  I  had  Judas'  thirty  pieces  of  silver  in  my 
pocket.  Her  reproaches,  nevertheless,  came 
home  to  me,  went  straight  to  my  heart,  and  cut 
me  to  the  quick.  Ah,  poor  Stephen !  my  poor 
Stephen  !  And  that  young  girl  whom  he  loved, 
from  whom  he  was  separated  by  my  criminal 
deed — for  it  was  a  crime  before  God.  What 
agony  he  must  have  endured !  It  seems  to  me 


T40  THE  REAL    VICTIM. 

that  I  can  see  and  hear  him  when  he  contem- 
plated, in  mournful  despair,  his  dream  of  happi- 
ness fading  away  forever.  Oh,  how  gladly  I 
would  give  my  fame,  my  fortune,  and  my  life 
to  redeem  one  of  those  tears.  I  recall  now  all 
our  friendship,  the  care  he  took  of  my  growing 
reputation,  his  loving,  earnest  counsel.  And 
his  cry  at  Mars-la-Tour,  when  he  threw  himself 
between  me  and  that  Uhlan's  sword — 'It  might 
better  be  I ;  you  have  genius. '  It  did  not,  how- 
ever, prevent  his  piercing  the  Uhlan's  head  with 
a  ball  from  his  revolver.  And  I  forgot  all  that, 
and  yielded  to  a  vile  suspicion,  to  newspaper 
and  drawing-room  gossip,  and  made  this  hero, 
this  friend  weep  like  a  child.  Oh,  stupid,  vil- 
lainous pride,  well  might  I  blush  for  it !  Poor 
Stephen,  what  will  he  say  when  he  receives  this 
letter  ?  If  the  wound  has  healed  it  will  reopen, 
and  he  will  curse  me  again,  and  justly." 
Stephen's  answer  came  promptly: 

"ROME,  October  25,  1879. 
"  MY  DEAR  ROBERT  : 

"  I   forgave  you   long  ago,  or,  rather,  I  have 
never  blamed  any  one  but  myself  for  your  mis- 


THE  REAL    VICTIM.  14* 

take.  Through  a  feeling  of  excessive  dignity  I 
would  not  defend  myself  against  your  accusa- 
tion ;  I  was  wrong,  hence  came  all  the  trouble. 
Do  not  further  reproach  yourself;  I  shall  tell 
you  some  day,  soon  I  hope,  how  you  have  been 
the  maker  of  my  future  happiness.  I  received 
with  yours  a  letter  from  my  dear  Gilberte.  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  scene  she  made  with  you 
was  rather  too  theatrical  for  a  young  girl.  I 
shall  scold  her  for  it. 

:<  On  your  part,  do  not  hold  this  too  much 
against  her.  I  have  always  dreaded  this  meet- 
ing for  you  both.  You  have  no  sister,  and  you 
do  not  know  how  tenderly  these  little  souls  love 
their  big  brothers.  I  know  one  in  the  highest 
social  circles,  who  made  a  vow  to  enter  a  con- 
vent if  her  elder  brother  returned  from  the  war ; 
she  is  now  a  Carmelite. 

"  Gilberte  will  never  become  a  Carmelite,  but 
you  have  had  sufficient  proof  that  she  does  not 
lack  strength  of  character.  Console  yourself 
by  saying,  'I  have  seen  the  wrath  of  the  Lamb,' 
as  the  Scripture  says.*  I  shall  not  finish  my 

*  "  Abscondite  nos  a  facie  sedentis  super  thronum  et  ab  ira 
Agni." — Apocalypse,  vi.  16. 


142  THE  REAL    VICTIM. 

letter  without  reproaching  you  very  seriously. 
You  no  longer  work,  you  are  doing  nothing. 
Why? 

"  I  can  guess  why,  my  dear  Robert,  or  rather 
I  am  quite  sure  I  know.  You  no  longer  do 
anything  because  your  last  work  turned  you 
from  your  true  course,  from  your  natural  bent. 
You  were  not  made  for  this  jeering,  satirical 
role.  The  success  you  achieved  is  your  punish- 
ment. You  were  the  lion  who  went  to  the 
monkeys  in  the  mountain,  and  on  returning  the 
'large-headed  seigneur'  made  grimaces  at  the 
passers-by ;  a  very  bad  habit,  and  difficult  to 
correct.  What  a  pity !  he  was  so  noble,  proud, 
and  handsome !  This  is  why  I  seek  a  quarrel 
with  the  lion.  You  will  become  again  that  lion 
that  I  loved,  and  shall  always  love,  my  dear 
Robert ;  it  is  your  duty.  I  knew  you  to  have  the 
highest  ambition,  the  ambition  to  give  to  France 
works  elevating  to  mind  and  soul,  of  which  she 
has  so  much  need.  You  have  labored  to  amuse 
the  Philistines ;  work  rather  to  create  the  great 
and  powerful,  and  to  win  their  applause.  Yes, 
my  dear  friend,  work  for  France,  give  her  sub- 
lime intellectual  food ;  should  she  disdain  it,  it 


THE  REAL    VICTIM.  1 43 

will  not  be  your  fault,  and  she  will  return  to  it 
sooner  or  later. 

"  I  impose  upon  you  as  a  penance  to  arouse 
your  genius,  and  I  say  to  you  as  the  Master  said 
to  Peter :  ' Due  in  altum  !  '  * 

"  I  have  finished  my  little  sermon,  dear  Rob- 
ert ;  be  thankful  that  I  did  not  put  it  into  a 
sonnet,  at  which  you  would  be  inclined  to  laugh. 
Forgive  this  little  piece  of  mischievous  pleas- 
antry, which  is  only  a  playful  evidence  of  my 
friendship  for  you. 

"  With  a  loving  embrace, 

"  STEPHEN  DE  FLEURIGNY.  " 

Robert  involuntarily  pressed  Stephen's  letter 
to  his  lips.  "  Yes,  I  will  do  your  bidding,  your 
wish  shall  be  mine ;  I  will  be  what  I  ought  to 
be,  and  I  shall  owe  it  all  to  you.  Oh !  what  a 
noble,  generous  heart;  how  readily  he  forgets, 
how  well  he  knows  how  to  comfort!  But  I 
will  not  forget,  I  will  never  forget ;  my  irrep- 
arable mistake  will  be  ever  before  my  eyes 
and  my  heart  will  always  be  tortured  with  bit- 
ter, undying  remorse.  I  am  the  real  victim 
myself." 

*  Launch  out  into  the  deep. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE    CID'S    ERROR. 

ROBERT  did  not  see  Gilberte  again  for  sev- 
eral days.  The  fever  of  work  had  again  seized 
him,  and  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  turret-room, 
coming  down  only  to  join  his  aunt  at  table, 
when  he  chatted  a  few  moments  with  her,  then 
returned  to  renew  his  work. 

One  day  after  breakfast  he  said  quite  joyfully 
to  the  good  marquise;  "'I  have  finished  the  first 
act ;  I  shall  read  it  to  you  if  you  wish." 

"  What  first  act  ?  " 

"  The  first  act  of  my  drama." 

"What  drama?  " 

"  The  Cid's  Error." 

"What  is  'The  Cid's  Error?'" 

"  You  will  see." 

"  Let  us  see,  then,  at  once." 

Although  the  marquise  often  chided  her 
nephew,  she  was  very  proud  of  him,  and  her 
144 


THE    CID'S  ERROR.  MS 

self-love  was  flattered  when  Robert  made  her 
the  confidant  of  his  labors. 

"  Go,  get  us  your  manuscript  and  let  us 
begin." 

Robert  complied,  but  just  as  he  began  to 
read,  Mme.  and  Mile,  de  Fleurigny  were  an- 
nounced. 

"  You  come  very  opportunely,  my  dear 
friends.  Robert  is  going  to  read  me  the  first 
act  of  his  new  work.  Stay,  and  we  three  shall 
form  a  small  tribunal,  enthusiastic,  if  there  is 
occasion,  but  very  severe  if  necessary." 

"  You  do  us  too  much  honor,"  said  Madame 
de  Fleurigny,  not  without  a  slight  touch  of 
bitterness. 

"  Since  chance  seems  to  favor  my  secret  de- 
sire," interrupted  Robert,  "  I  earnestly  pray  you 
to  be  good  enough  to  listen  to  this  new  work. 
I  assure  you  the  honor  is  to  me  alone." 

"  What  do  you  think,  Gilberte  ?  " 

Gilberte  turned  upon  Robert  that  sphinx-like 
gaze  of  which  we  have  already  spoken,  and  said 
deliberately : 

"  Let  us  stay,  mother. 

Robert  began  to  read.     The  plot  of  his  drama 


146  THE    CID'S  ERROR. 

was  very  simple.  The  Cid  in  his  youth  was 
chosen  to  arbitrate  in  a  quarrel  between  two 
kings.  He  had  cause  of  complaint  against  one 
of  them,  the  memory  of  which  so  influenced  his 
judgment  that,  notwithstanding  his  great  equity, 
he  condemned  the  king  whom  he  believed  to 
have  wronged  him.  The  king  thus  condemned, 
despoiled  of  his  kingdom,  died  in  exile.  Mean- 
time, the  son  of  the  vanquished  prince  pro- 
claimed, and  offered  to  prove,  his  father's  in- 
nocence. At  the  end  of  the  first  act  of  the 
drama,  he  came  to  ask  the  Cid  to  revoke  the 
unjust  edict.  The  Cid,  after  mature  reflection, 
acknowledges  his  error  and  pledges  himself  to 
repair  it.  The  allusions  were  very  transparent; 
the  Cid  was  de  Salemberry  himself;  and  it  was 
very  evident  that  the  unjustly  condemned  king 
was  Stephen.  Robert's  three  auditors  recog- 
nized them  at  once,  and  their  interest  was  in- 
tensely excited  from  the  first  moment. 

The  poet  read  with  extraordinary  power  and 
fervor.  His  voice  gave  the  resonance  of  a 
clarion  to  the  verses,  which  were  superb  in 
their  movement,  like  the  noble  bearing  of  the 
herald-at-arms  who,  in  olden  times,  announced 


THE   CID'S  ERROR.  147 

the  opening  of  the  lists.  Familiar  scenes,  at 
times  almost  comic,  were  introduced  with  dra- 
matic effect.  Robert  had  discovered  the  point 
at  which  the  sublime  and  the  familiar  meet, 
which  is  the  dream,  the  ambition,  and  often 
the  despair  of  writers.  The  work  was,  conse- 
quently, vigorously  bold,  strong,  and  incisive. 
The  young  prince's  plaint  before  the  Cid,  as 
well  as  the  Cid's  monologue,  drew  silent  tears 
from  the  women's  eyes. 

As  the  reading  ended  the  marquise  ex- 
claimed : 

"  I  recognize  in  this  my  noble  Robert.  I  am 
no  judge  of  these  things,  but  I  appreciate  their 
beauty;  tears  are  an  unmistakable  tribute  to 
excellence. " 

"  That  is  very  true,  my  dear,"  added  Madame 
de  Fleurigny;  "my  heart  thrilled  through 
it  all." 

"And  you,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny?"  ventured 
Robert. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  shall  be  more  severe,  perhaps.  I 
shall  tell  you  what  I  think  on  our  way  to  the 
village." 

"  I  submit  to  your  judgment  in  advance." 


148  THE   CID'S  ERROR. 

"That  is  a  mistake,  M.  de  Salemberry.  I 
am  sincere,  but  not  infallible." 

The  three  ladies,  accompanied  by  Robert 
walked  along  the  road  to  Rille,  the  mother  and 
the  aunt  a  little  in  advance.  Gilberte,  deep  in 
thought,  seemed  scarcely  conscious  of  Robert's 
presence  at  her  side. 

"  Well,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny,  the  culprit  awaits 
his  sentence." 

Gilberte  blushed  slightly,  and,  with  apparent 
effort  rousing  herself  from  her  long  revery? 
said  : 

"  I  made  a  very  imprudent  promise.  I  am 
only  a  young  girl,  little  versed  in  the  great 
questions  of  art  and  literature ;  my  opinion  has 
no  value  except  to  myself.  I  feel  also  that  it 
is  very  easy  to  misjudge,  and  then " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  lightly  touching  the 
branch  of  a  tree  with  the  end  of  her  parasol. 

"  And     then —  You     are     laughing    at 

me." 

"  Laughing  at  you,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny !  I 
laugh  at  you !  You  know  too  well  that  could 
not  be." 

"  Well,"  continued  Gilberte  earnestly,  "  not- 


THE   CID'S  ERROR.  149 

withstanding  my  ignorance,  incompetence,  if 
you  like  it  better — I  have  a  passion  for  litera- 
ture; I  adore  Corneille." 

And  she  added,  smiling : 

"  Like  a  princess  of  the  Fronde,  while  listen- 
ing to  you  I  naturally  thought  of  my  old  friend 
Corneille,  and  I  said  to  myself  as  you  were 
reading  that  first  act,  how  would  Corneille  have 
rendered  such  a  scene?  That  was  very  preten- 
tious, was  it  not?" 

"  No,  but  it  is  very  flattering  to  me  to  be 
compared  to  Corneille." 

"  Precisely.  I  compared  the  young  prince's 
plaint,  which  I  confess  brought  tears  to  my 
eyes,  to  the  plaints  and  sorrows  of  Chimene; 
and  I  said  to  myself,  pardon  my  presumption, 
that  your  drama  would  be  much  more  touching 
if,  instead  of  a  son,  you  had  given  a  daughter  to 
the  king  unjustly  condemned  by  the  Cid." 

"  Why  so,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny  ?  " 

"  Because  a  son  could  revenge  himself,  and  a 
daughter  could  only  make  plaint." 

"  I  admit  that;  I  agree  with  you." 

"  Then  this  young  man,  this  soldier,  would 
necessarily  co  -  operate  with  the  Cid  in  the 


15°  THE    CID'S  ERROR. 

reparation  of  his  error  .  .  .  and  I  should  rather 
that  the  Cid  would  bear  the  entire  burden. " 

"  That  is  very  true,  very  just.  You  are  per- 
fectly right.  Why  did  I  not  think  of  this? 
The  king  shall  have  a  daughter,  that  is  decided. 
However,  wait.  I  shall  leave  him  a  son  also, 
a  brother  and  sister.  The  sister  will  love  her 
brother  as ' 

"  If  you  wish,  M.  de  Salemberry,"  replied 
Gilberte  impetuously. 

"  I  beg  of  you  not  to  hesitate  if  you  have  any 
further  criticism  to  make,  for  you  will  be  doing 
me  a  great  service." 

"  Really  ?  Well,  then,  I  think  that  the  Cid 
allowed  himself  to  be  very  easily  deceived." 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  believe  that,  Mile,  de  Fleu- 
rigny." 

"Then  I  shall  not  insist  upon  it;  you  have, 
doubtless,  your  own  reasons." 

"  Is  that  meant  to  be  epigrammatic?  " 

"  No,  something  better." 

"  Continue,  please.  I  see  you  still  ha^e 
something  to  reprehend." 

"  Yes,  M.  de  Salemberry,  but  I  dare  not  say 


THE    CID'S  ERROR.  151 

"  Do,  I  beg  of  you." 

"  Well,  then,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  Cid  did 
not  recognize  his  error  soon  enough ;  he  resisted 
the  light,  and  there  was  too  much  humiliated 
pride  in  his  chagrin;  if  he  does  not  deplore  his 
error  with  adequate  bitterness,  he  will  not  make 
sufficient  reparation." 

"  I  yield  this  point.  I  shall  modify  the  mon- 
ologue. Is  that  all  ?  " 

"  That  is  all." 

"  I  thank  you  from  the  depths  of  my  heart, 
Mile,  de  Fleurigny.  But  how  did  you  acquire 
such  penetration,  such  a  rare  sense  of  justice, 
and  such  quick,  unerring  judgment?  " 

"  I  do  not  possess  all  these  qualities,  M.  de 
Salemberry,  but  if  I  did  I  should  owe  them  to 
my  favorite  poet,  who  is,  as  I  have  told  you, 
Corneille,  and  after  Corneille " 

At  this  moment  they  were  just  entering  the 
drawing-room  of  the  little  house  at  Rille;  Gil- 
berte  led  Robert  to  her  brother's  portrait,  and, 
standing  in  front  of  it,  finished  her  sentence : 

"  After  Corneille,  to  Stephen. " 

"  I  saw  that  at  once;  while  listening  to  you  I 
almost  thought  it.  was  he  that  was  speaking." 


IS2  THE   CID'S  ERROR. 

Gilberte,  whose  eyes  suddenly  assumed  their 
mysterious  gravity,  added  in  a  low  voice : 

"  The  other  day,  when  you  wished  to  look  at 
this  portrait,  I  prevented  you,  rather  bruskly, 
if  I  remember.  Now,  I  permit  you  to  look  at 
Stephen,"  she  said  gravely,  as  she  walked 
slowly  away. 

When  taking  his  leave,  Robert  said  to  her, 
almost  beseechingly : 

"  You  have  been  generously  kind  and  helpful 
to  me,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny ;  will  you  not  continue 
your  goodness  and  allow  me,  while  pursuing  my 
labors,  to  claim  for  my  work  your  advice,  just  as 
you  have  given  it  to-day  ?  " 

Gilberte  turned  her  gaze  upon  Stephen's  por- 
trait,— then,  looking  at  Robert,  said  : 

"  Yes,  M.  de  Salemberry." 

Robert,  usually  so  ready  to  chat  with  his  aunt, 
did  not  address  a  word  to  her  on  the  way  from 
the  village  to  the  castle.  The  good  marquise 
noticed  this,  but  respected  his  revery,  and  when 
they  reached  home  said  to  him,  smiling : 

"  Yes,  Robert,  I  am  of  your  opinion." 

"The  Cid's  Error"  progressed  rapidly  after 
this  excellent  beginning.  Robert  set  to  work 


THE   CID'S  ERROR.  153 

again  and  gave  himself  up  to  it  with  a  sort  of 
desperation,  and  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction 
that  he  had  not  experienced  for  a  long  time. 
Every  week  he  assembled  his  small  audience 
and  read  to  them  what  he  had  written.  The 
marquise  and  Mme.  de  Fleurigny  were  content 
to  admire,  but  Gilberte  continued  her  role  of 
censor  and  adviser. 

A  noble  woman  displays  in  her  judgment  of 
intellectual  works  the  same  tact  she  shows  in 
her  intercourse  with  the  world;  she  quickly 
recoils  from  all  that  shocks  her  delicacy  and 
rectitude ;  her  instinct  warns  her  even  before 
her  reason;  her  purity  loves  and  seeks  that 
which  it  resembles,  and  she  guides  herself  in 
the  serene  heights  of  thought  like  the  swan  over 
the  azure  depths. 

Such  a  woman  was  Gilberte.  In  this  inter- 
change of  ideas,  she,  as  well  as  Robert,  gained 
much.  He  acquired  greater  accuracy,  and 
more  sustained  loftiness  of  sentiment  and  ex- 
pression. She  was  brought  in  touch  with  the 
noblest  problems  of  the  human  heart,  enjoyed 
the  exquisite  pleasure  of  watching  the  budding 
and  growth  of  a  new  work,  and  of  contemplating 


154  THE   CID'S  EKKOX. 

poetry  all  aglow  in  its  descent  from  regions  to 
which  the  vulgar  never  attain. 

Gilberte  one  day  received  a  letter  from  her 
brother,  of  which  the  following  are  a  few 
extracts : 

"  DEAR,  PRECIOUS  SISTER  : 

"What  you  tell  me  about  'The  Cid's  Error' 
interests  me  intensely.  Robert  is  here  on  his 
own  ground,  and  if  he  fails  it  will  be  at  least  a 
noble  ruin.  Whatever  the  success  may  be,  his 
mind  and  soul  will  be  again  attuned  to  higher 
things;  all  else  is  of  little  importance. 

"  So  you  give  him  advice,  my  little  Sevigne, 
and  you  want  to  know  if  I  approve.  Certainly. 
If  my  formidable  friend  seeks  to  repair  the  in- 
jury he  has  done,  let  us  aid  him  in  his  efforts, 
that  he  may  be  spared  any  unexpected  suffering, 
for  you  see  that  when  a  fault  is  not  repaired  it 
must  be  expiated. 

"  This  is  the  general  idea  of  his  drama  (I  was 
going  to  say  of  your  drama),  if  I  have  under- 
stood it  aright.  However,  he  should  not  insist 
too  much  upon  the  expiation  imposed  upon  the 
Cid;  he  is  so  exalted  a  character  in  history 


THE   CID'S  ERROR.  155 

and  legend,  it  would  be  wrong  to  disparage 
him. 

"  Think  over  this,  for  I  have  misgivings 
about  it ;  but  Robert  will  carry  away  my  doubts 
in  the  lion's  skin.  .  .  . 

"  What  you  add  about  his  receipts  as  author 
of  '  The  Poisonous  Fang '  having  been  given  to 
the  poor  gives  me  pleasure.  You  ask  if  you 
ought  to  apologize  for  the  unjust  reproaches  you 
made  him  on  this  subject.  I  do  not  think  it 
necessary — he  understands  you. 

"  You  would  like  very  much  to  know  what  I 
am  doing  in  Rome,  and  why  I  remain  here  so 
long.  This  is  still  a  secret,  but  in  a  little 
while  you  will  know  all,  and  you,  as  well  as 
mother,  will  be  very  happy. 

"Adieu,  till  we  meet  again,  my  good,  noble 
Gilberte.  I  hold  you  and  mother  to  my  heart, 
once  so  severely  wounded,  but  now  completely 
healed.  STEPHEN." 

"  The  Cid's  Error"  was  finished  in  two 
months,  and  Robert  started  for  Paris,  where 
the  rehearsals  were  soon  to  begin.  Madame 
de  Rille  promised  to  be  present  at  the  first 


IS6  THE   CID'S  ERROR. 

representation,  to  which  she  looked  forward 
with  great  pleasure. 

"  If  I  dared,  Mile.  Gilberte,"  said  Robert,  "  I 
should  ask  you  to  come  to  see  my  play." 

"  Perhaps  I  may,  M.  de  Salemberry ;  I  shall 
consult  Stephen." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

A    MANAGER    ON    HOT    COALS. 

THERE  are  always  people  to  be  found  willing 
to  fill  the  most  dangerous  and  laborious  posi- 
tions; to  be  bailiffs,  policemen,  physicians, 
firemen  on  locomotives,  ministers  of  finance,  to 
make  ascensions  in  balloons,  to  venture  into 
private  drawing-rooms,  to  listen  to  Wagner's 
operas.  There  are  those  who  will  enter  the 
tiger's  cage  and  even  the  lion's  den.  These 
last  are  the  theatrical  managers,  the  most  heroic 
of  all. 

A  theatrical  manager  is  a  tyrant  and  a  slave ; 
he  preys  upon  others  and  is  preyed  upon  in 
turn ;  he  is  obliged  to  wage  furious  war  with 
actors  and  actresses,  scene-shifters,  machin- 
ists, decorators,  prompters,  newspaper-men,  sub- 
scribers, with  the  public,  but  above  all  with 
the  authors.  He  can  scarcely  be  said  to  live 
by  this  terrible  way  of  practising  his  profession, 
157 


158  A    MANAGER   ON  HOT  COALS. 

yet  if  he  did  not  carry  it  on  in  this  manner  it 
would  be  the  death  of  him. 

Jacques  Alenc,on  was  the  most  courageous 
and  the  most  unfortunate  of  these  voluntary 
martyrs.  The  setting  of  each  new  piece  was 
an  incessant  and  complicated  torture  to  him. 
Nevertheless,  he  threw  himself  body  and  soul 
into  the  work,  with  an  apparent  composure 
which  increased  his  inward  suffering.  His 
trouble  began  with  the  necessity  of  judging  the 
piece  itself ;  he  had  knowledge,  experience,  and 
quick  perception,  but  these  three  excellent  qual- 
ities only  added  to  his  natural  and  acquired  per- 
plexity, making  him  see  and  feel  all  the  defects, 
which  he  carefully  weighed  and  balanced  with 
the  good  qualities.  This  is  the  delicate,  cruel 
operation,  the  refinement  of  petty  injustice  that 
theatrical  managers  have  to  endure :  The  pro- 
logue is  not  clear ;  the  second  scene  but  a  repe- 
tition of  the  first ;  there  is  a  story  that  may 
create  a  laugh,  but  the  effect  of  the  last  scene  is 
grand — perhaps — for  nothing  is  certain.  Then 
the  struggle  with  the  actors  to  obtain  from 
them,  by  flattering  their  self-love,  the  best  their 
talent  is  capable  of,  adroitly  suggesting  what 


A    MANAGER   ON  HOT  COALS.  159 

they  should  do,  while  seeming  to  let  them  have 
the  merit  of  it ;  saying  to  them,  for  example : 
"  It  seemed  to  me  yesterday  that  you  were 
remarkably  graceful  and  your  intonation  was 
excellent,"  which  was  nothing  less  than  the 
truth.  Finally,  the  difficulty  of  preventing  one 
from  producing  an  effect  at  the  expense  of  an- 
other, "  from  drawing  the  covering  away  from 
her, "  as  they  say  in  theatrical  slang.  These  are 
not  trifling  difficulties,  and  even  a  diplomatic 
manager  finds  it  no  easy  task  always  to  over- 
come them. 

Jacques  Alengon  possessed  this  great  art,  but 
he  paid  dearly  for  it.  What  he  really  enjoyed 
was  planning  and  setting  the  scenes,  arranging 
the  groups  to  form  beautiful  tableaux,  superin- 
tending the  designing  of  the  costumes  to  make 
them  harmonize.  He  was  perfect  master  of 
this  secondary  but  most  important  part  of  a 
very  special  science. 

After  these  efforts  and  long  struggles,  ac- 
companied by  feverish  activity  and  insomnia, 
he  finds  himself  face  to  face  with  the  unknown 
— with  an  alea,  chance;  for  success  or  failure 
hangs  upon  a  trifle. 


160  A   MANAGER   ON  HOT  COALS. 

Such  were  Jacques  Alenc/m's  thoughts  the 
morning  of  the  first  representation  of  "  The 
Cid's  Error,"  which  he  thoroughly  appreciated 
and  even  admired,  as  much  as  a  manager  may 
seem  to  admire.  But  he  would  have  tossed  up 
on  its  success.  His  anxiety,  however,  betrayed 
itself  in  spite  of  him,  and  before  the  curtain 
rose  he  walked  about  the  stage  as  if  treading 
on  hot  coals. 

As  to  Robert  de  Salemberry,  despite  a  cer- 
tain feeling  of  interest,  he  was  calm  and  con- 
fident. Seated  in  a  proscenium  box  behind 
Mesdames  de  Rille  and  de  Fleurigny  and  Mile. 
Gilberte,  he  heard  the  signal  for  the  raising  of 
the  curtain  with  less  fear  than  curiosity,  as  if 
he  were  about  to  witness  and  judge  the  work  of 
another. 

The  audience  seemed  unusually  eager.  The 
evening  of  a  first  representation  the  author  cal- 
culates upon  a  dozen  devoted  friends  convinced 
of  his  talent,  and  twelve  hundred  secret  or 
avowed  enemies.  After  the  pronounced  and 
prolonged  success  of  "  The  Poisonous  Fang,"  it 
was  very  natural  that  the  public  should  be  on 
the  alert,  and,  if  they  had  not  expressly  deter- 


A    MANAGER   ON  HOT  COALS.  161 

mined  to  destroy  their  recent  idol,  they  would 
reflect  before  putting  him  on  a  higher  pedestal. 

The  first  scene  of  "The  Cid's  Error"  pro- 
duced a  grand  effect;  the  brilliant,  sonorous 
verses  were  received  with  great  applause.  The 
second  scene,  which  was  piquantly  comic,  de- 
lighted the  audience ;  the  role  of  the  cowardly, 
famished  valet  caused  frank  shouts  of  laughter; 
it  was  too  successful.  The  following  scene, 
which  was  purely  tragic,  was  not  understood. 
The  audience  had  taken  a  false  scent,  and  they 
missed  the  gayety  of  the  preceding  scene.  The 
entrance  of  the  Cid  failed  in  effect;  the  simple, 
familiar  language  in  which  the  poet  clothed  his 
speech  bewildered  the  spectators,  who  supposed 
that  this  also  was  a  comic  role ;  and  when  the 
grand  old  Campeador  expressed  himself  in 
nobler  language  they  were  surprised  and  dis- 
concerted. Nevertheless,  the  end  of  this  first 
act,  full  of  fervor  and  beauty,  was  vigorously 
applauded.  Success  was  possible. 

Robert  went  behind  the   curtain,  where  he 
met  the    manager,    who    stood   nervously   tap- 
ping with  his  cane  on  the  rests  of   the  stage 
scenery, 
it 


1 62  A    MANAGER   ON  HOT  COALS. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  ?  "  asked  the  poet. 

"  I  shall  answer  you  after  the  last  act." 

"  But  it  really  seems  to  me " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  the  shark  does  not  seem  much 
inclined  to  nibble  at  the  bait." 

"  It  will  nibble  at  it  in  the  second  act." 

"  Provided  it  does  not  upset  the  boat." 

"  We  have  safety- buoys. " 

"A  pitiful  resource  in  a  stormy  sea." 

In  the  actors'  gallery  Robert  was  surrounded 
by  a  crowd  of  the  three  kinds  of  friends  de- 
scribed by  the  morose  philosopher :  those  who 
love,  those  who  do  not  love,  and  those  who 
hate.  They  congratulated  him,  pressed  his 
hand,  and  embraced  him,  but  the  friends  of  the 
third  category  did  not  seem  disturbed. 

One  of  them  said  to  his  companion  as  they 
went  out : 

"  We  did  well  to  congratulate  him  after  the 
first  act." 

"  You  fear,  then,  that  the  others " 

"  My  dear,  when  one  is  in  the  house  he  feels 
very  quickly  if  it  is  likely  to  fall." 

"  You  make  me  fear  for  our  poor  friend." 

"  Fraud  ! " 


A    MANAGER   ON  HOT  COALS.  163 

"  You  saw  the  rehearsal  as  well  as  I ;  do  you 
think  that  the  second  act  may  be  hissed?  " 

"  Gourmand ! " 

It  was  not  hissed ;  on  the  contrary,  one  mag- 
nificent scene  created  a  sort  of  enthusiasm,  but 
the  rest  was  coldly  received.  There  was  ap- 
plause also  when  the  curtain  fell. 

"Well?"  said  the  man  who  had  just  been 
speaking  to  his  companion. 

"  Well,  he  has  exhausted  his  stock  of  the 
sublime." 

The  effect  of  the  third  act  was  mournful.  It 
was  evident  that  the  crowd  did  not  grasp 
the  poet's  meaning.  A  few  brilliant  passages 
relieved  the  torpor,  but  the  piece  was  con- 
demned. 

"  There  is  no  more  danger,"  said  the  amiable 
confrere  of  whom  we  have  already  spoken, 
"  there  is  no  more  danger,  we  may  applaud" ; 
and  he  raised  his  hands  while  applauding,  that 
Robert  might  see  him. 

In  the  public  corridor  an  epigram,  something 
like  this,  was  circulated,  the  author  of  which 
was  unknown : 


164  'A' MANAGER    ON  HOT   COALS. 

"  Unjust  throughout  the  drama  is.     To  earn  his  daily  bread 
The  prince  becomes  a  pencil-peddler  in  the  play ; 
His  daughter  loses  heaven,  as  the  author  lost  his  head  ; 
And  the  chief  fault  of  the  Cid  is  that  the  public  has  to  pay." 

The  last  two  acts  were  listened  to  with  pity. 
No  one  hissed,  for  great  talent  always  com- 
mands respect,  but  a  gentle  drowsiness  reigned 
from  the  orchestra  to  the  front  boxes ;  the  fair 
spectators  showed  all  their  pearly  teeth  between 
their  rosy  lips,  but  not  in  smiles.  The  author's 
name  was  mentioned  in  the  midst  of  the  cla- 
queurs applause,  the  actors  were  called  and 
given  an  ovation,  as  was  but  just,  but  it  was 
cruel  to  the  poet. 

"Withdraw  the  play  at  once,"  said  Salem- 
berry  to  Jacques  Alenc,on. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  sir,  but  you  know 

When  you  bring  me  another  tragedy,  I  shall 
call  in  the  police." 

Robert  accompanied  the  ladies  to  the  hand- 
some house  in  the  Rue  de  Bac,  where  Madame 
de  Fleurigny  and  her  daughter  were  Madame 
de  Rille's  guests. 

As  he  took  leave  of  them  Gilberte  held  out 
her  hand  to  him,  saying : 


A    MANAGER    ON  HOT  COALS.  165 

"You  are  depressed,  are  you  not,  M.  de 
Salemberry  ?  " 

"  No,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny,  I  am  almost  happy. 
Stephen  is  revenged." 

Robert  was  not  so  happy  as  he  said  he  was. 
The  next  morning's  papers  were  more  cruel  than 
the  public.  "The  Cid's  Error"  expiated  the 
success  of  "  The  Poisonous  Fang."  Most  of  the 
critics  decided  that  the  chivalrous  and  histori- 
cal drama  had  received  its  death-blow  this  time. 
Two  or  three  of  the  more  considerate  judges 
protested  against  the  public  verdict;  a  week 
afterward  it  was  no  longer  thought  of. 

The  day  after  the  disaster,  Robert  de  Salem- 
berry met  one  of  his  friends  on  the  Boulevard. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  his  friend,  "  the  pub- 
lic was  wrong — there  are  admirable  things  in 
that  piece ;  if  you  will  allow  me,  in  ten  years 
I  shall  rearrange  the  play  and  it  will  have  an 
immense  success." 

"  How,  I  pray  you  ?  " 

Robert  soon  after  this  secured  a  delightful 
revenge.  He  published  the  second  part  of  his 
grand  poem,  and  the  manner  of  its  reception 
ought  to  have  consoled  the  poet;  but  there  is 


1 66  A   MANAGER   ON  HOT  COALS. 

no  consolation  for  an  unsuccessful  play.  Such 
varied  experiences  of  humiliating  disappoint- 
ment and  gratified  pride  must  tell  upon  the 
finest  mind  and  the  strongest  constitution. 
Robert  fell  ill,  and  the  physicians  ordered  the 
rest  and  quiet  of  home  life.  He  returned  to 
his  aunt  at  Rille,  where  he  again  met  Madame 
de  Fleurigny  and  Gilberte. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE    LETTER    "  G  "    AND    "  THE    LAKE." 

THE  last  months  of  winter  were  very  dreary 
to  our  wounded  hero,  who,  though  triumphant, 
still  felt  the  moral  wound  he  had  received. 
These  favorites  of  fortune  can  ill  endure  the 
sudden  rigors  of  fate.  Robert  was  seized  with 
a  sort  of  feverish  dejection  and  profound  melan- 
choly, accompanied  by  mental  and  physical 
prostration.  Disgust  and  weariness  of  life  were 
slowly  consuming  his  strong  nature.  The  fail- 
ure of  his  play,  in  wounding  his  self-love, 
touched  the  most  secret  and  noblest  depths  of 
his  heart ;  before  this  catastrophe  he  cherished 
the  hope  of  presenting  his  work  as  a  retraction 
of  his  offence  against  Stephen ;  he  would  have 
liked  to  have  dedicated  to  him  his  successful 
drama,  but  there  is  no  homage  in  the  dedication 
of  an  unsuccessful  play.  His  hopes  in  this 
respect  were  sadly  frustrated. 
167 


1 68      THE  LETTER  "G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE." 

Besides,  he  believed  it  had  lessened  him  in 
Gilberte's  estimation;  he  compared  himself  to 
a  blind  lion  he  once  saw  in  an  Algerian  village, 
serving  as  a  plaything  for  the  Arab  children. 

In  addition  to  all  this,  the  painful  experience 
at  the  theatre  had  a  terrible  effect  upon  the 
poet  physically.  At  decisive  moments,  in  the 
instant  when  the  battle  may  be  lost  or  won, 
the  pulsation  of  the  heart  is  momentarily  sus- 
pended, and  thus  it  contracts  the  germs  of  future 
hypertrophy. 

This  hypertrophy  of  the  heart  was  what 
Robert  was  threatened  with.  The  illness  was 
long  and  painful,  and  absolute  rest  was  advised. 
But  the  imagination  cannot  rest  like  the  body, 
and  the  unhappy  poet  had  constantly  in  his 
mind  the  remembrance  of  those  last  few  months, 
especially  that  fatal  representation,  and  the 
dull  eyes  of  that  large,  cold  audience  were 
always  before  him. 

As  may  be  imagined,  every  care  was  lavished 
upon  him.  His  aunt,  as  well  as  Madame  de 
Fleurigny  and  Gilberte,  surrounded  him  with 
the  most  tactful  and  most  ingenious  attentions. 
Gilberte  was  celebrated  in  the  country  for  her 


THE  LETTER  "G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE."      169 

skill  as  a  nurse,  and  this  was  not  an  occasion  to 
refuse  to  exercise  it.  Nature  aiding,  the  phys- 
ical malady  was  soon  conquered,  but  the  moral 
ailment  was  more  obstinate.  With  restored 
health  Robert  experienced  only  the  painful 
weariness  and  anguish  of  bitter  memories. 
His  heart  was  healed,  but  empty. 

One  day  while  alone  in  the  drawing-room. 
lying  on  a  couch,  he  vainly  sought  to  banish 
these  gloomy  ideas  by  watching  the  bright 
March  sun  pouring  in  through  the  wide-open 
door. 

"  What  beautiful  weather,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  but  what  is  it  to  me  ?  Valentine  de 
Milan  was  right :  ' ' Rien  ne  mest  plus,  plus  ne 
mest  rien. '  "  * 

Suddenly  Gilberte  appeared  in  the  warm, 
brilliant  sunbeams  that  streamed  through  the 
door.  She  had  just  returned  from  the  park, 
animated  by  her  brisk  walk,  and  on  entering 
the  room  went  directly  toward  Robert  with 
head  erect,  smiling,  and  radiant  as  the  aureole 
of  sunbeams  that  surrounded  her. 

*  "  I  am  of  interest  to  no  one,  and  nothing  is  of  interest  to 
me." 


170      THE  LETTER  "  G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE." 

Robert,  rising,  eagerly  started  forward  to 
meet  her,  but  staggered  and  was  obliged  to  lean 
his  trembling  hands  against  the  wall  for  sup- 
port. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing." 

"  How  pale  you  are.     Do  you  still  suffer?  " 

"No,  no.     I  am  quite  well,  quite." 

And  he  closed  his  eyes  to  retain  the  thought 
of  this  heavenly  vision. 

It  was  almost  heaven  to  him,  for  he  was  in 
love. 

"  I  am  looking  for  your  aunt  and  my  mother. 
Where  are  they?  " 

"  Down  there,  on  the  bank  of  the  pond. " 

"  I  am  going  to  join  them,  and  shall  bring 
them  back  to  you." 

"  May  I  not  accompany  you,  Mile.  Gilberte?  " 

"  No ;  the  March  sun  is  still  dangerous  for 
you.  Sit  there  a  little  in  the  shade,  like  a 
prudent  invalid,  and  wait  for  us." 

Robert  watched  her  as  she  went  away,  and 
his  whole  soul  accompanied  her. 

"  Yes,  I  love  her,  it  is  true.  I  love  her.  O 
my  God,  how  good  thou  art !  How  long  I  have 


THE  LE  TTER  "  G  "  AND  "  THE  LAKE. "     171 

loved  her,  I  know  not ;  whether  it  is  within  the 
last  instant  or  for  years.  What  matters  it?  I 
love  her,  I  shall  tell  her  mother  and  my  aunt, 
and  I  shall  declare  my  love  to  her,  and  we 
shall  be  married.  But  first  I  must  write  to 
Stephen." 

Suddenly  the  young  man's  brow  became 
clouded. 

"  Write  to  Stephen,  her  brother,  whom  I  so 
basely  outraged,  and  ask  for  the  hand  of  his 
sister !  Is  it  what  he  or  she  would  be  likely  to 
wish  ?  I  remember  the  dreadful  things  she  said 
to  me  that  day,  and  even  then,  yes,  on  that  very 
day  I  began  to  love  her.  How  beautiful  she 
was,  as  the  lightning-flashes  of  her  eyes  lit  up 
her  brow.  But  I  cannot  hope  to  marry  her;  I 
was  the  cause  of  Stephen's  losing  the  one  he 
loved,  and  shall  I  say  to  him  now:  'Give  me 
your  sister  '  ?  Impossible ! 

"  Yes,  it  is  impossible  for  the  present ;  but 
later  things  will  arrange  themselves.  Time  is 
the  accomplice  of  those  who  really  love.  I  will 
work,  now  my  heart  is  all  aflame ;  I  will  work 
to  become  illustrious  among  the  illustrious ;  I 
will  heap  poems  upon  dramas,  Pelion  upon 


172      THE  LETTER  "  G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE." 

Ossa,  and  scale  the  heights  of  genius!  And 
then  I  shall  say  to  her :  'It  is  for  you  that  I 
have  done  all  this ;  I  have  made  the  world  re- 
sound with  my  name,  that  I  might  offer  it  to 
you!'  And  I  am  sure  that  then — grant  it,  O 
my  God — I  am  sure  on  that  day  she  will  not 
reject  me." 

Robert,  with  his  poetic  imagination,  set  to 
work  to  form  his  plan  of  conduct. 

"  Of  course,  I  shall  say  nothing  of  this  to 
her,  or  to  any  one.  I  shall  talk  to  her  as  to  all 
other  women,  simply  and  naturally,  that  she 
may  suspect  nothing.  I  shall  envelop  her  in 
imperceptible  tenderness.  I  shall  give  her 
name  to  a  star  and  contemplate  it  in  mute  ado- 
ration, and  the  star  will  know  nought  of  it." 

Robert  kept  his  word,  and  devised  for  him- 
self the  choicest  pleasures.  This  highly 
wrought  temperament  loved  like  a  child,  found 
the  most  exquisite  happiness  in  the  veriest 
trifles ;  with  a  childishness  of  heart  he  found 
mysterious  pleasure  in  artless,  timorous  atten- 
tions ;  little  triumphs  of  concealed  love  in  sub- 
lime efforts  to  pick  up,  unobserved,  a  glove  that 
had  fallen. 


THE  LETTER  "G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE."      173 

Our  poet  obtained  two  of  these  triumphs  that 
made  him  forget  the  success  of  his  finest  works  : 

One  day  when  Robert  was  sitting  beside 
Gilberte  on  a  bench  in  the  park,  not  far  from 
the  porch  where  her  mother  and  his  aunt  sat 
chatting,  an  irresistible  desire  came  to  his  mind 
to  make  the  young  girl  write  her  Christian 
name,  Gilberte,  in  the  sand,  with  the  end  of  her 
parasol. 

This  is  the  first  idea  of  lovers.  Madame 
Swetchine  says  :  "  To  write  in  pencil  is  to  speak 
in  a  low  voice."  To  write  one's  name  in  the 
sand  is  equal  to  speaking  in  a  low  voice  or  to 
signing  a  note  of  exchange  on  the  future  with- 
out knowing  the  nature  of  the  note.  This  is 
why  Robert  longed  to  see  Gilberte's  name 
written  by  herself  in  the  golden  sands. 

But  how  accomplish  this  thing,  so  easy  or  so 
difficult  according  as  occasion  offers?  There 
are  many  ways,  but  Robert  knew  of  only  one : 
he  must  appeal  solely  to  her  imagination. 

This  is  what  this  great  poet,  this  composer 
of  dramas,  this  inventor  of  grandiose  scenes, 
considered  the  best  way  to  effect  the  object  of 
his  desires. 


174      THE  LETTER  "G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE." 

After  a  long,  silent  meditation,  he  suddenly 
said  to  Gilberte : 

"  Mile,  de  Fleurigny,  I  should  not  like  to  be 
called  Gontran !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  the  young  girl,  much 
astonished. 

"  Because  the  name  Gontran  begins  with  a 
G." 

"Well,  what  misfortune  is  there  in  that?" 

"  The  misfortune  is  that  the  letter  G  is  very 
difficult  to  write." 

"  Why  the  letter  G  more  than  all  the  others  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  very  complicated,  and  has 
rather  an  odd  appearance.  In  fact,  I  have  never 
been  able  to  write  it  correctly,  so  as  to  look 
well." 

"  That  astonishes  me,  M.  de  Salemberry,  for 
there  is  nothing  simpler." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  a  proof  of  u." 

"  You  shall  see." 

And  with  the  end  of  her  white  parasol  Gil- 
berte wrote  the  letter  G  in  the  fine  sand. 

"  See !  " 

"  You  are  right,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny,  you  are 
right.  But  there  is  another  letter  in  the  name 


777/1  LETTER  "G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE."      175 

Gontran  which  I  have  still  greater  difficulty  in 
writing ;  that  is  the  letter  o;  my  o  looks  like  a. 
It  is  not  as  easy  to  write  as  the  letter  /,  for 
example." 

"  You  are  mistaken  again,  M.  de  Salemberry ; 
the  letter  i  is  very  difficult." 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  so." 

"  Certainly.  The  letter  i  has  a  straight 
stroke  which  requires  the  most  careful  attention, 
and  it  is  quite  an  art  to  place  the  dot  at  the 
exact  required  distance.  Look." 

The  young  girl  again  wrote,  with  the  end  of 
her  parasol  tracing  the  letter  i  in  the  sand. 

"You  certainly  have  done  it  most  per- 
fectly." 

She  smiled,  and,  without  further  remark, 
finished  writing  her  name,  "Gilberte."  Then 
she  reassumed  that  profound,  impenetrable  ex- 
pression that  Robert  knew  so  well,  but  which 
she  had  abandoned  of  late. 

"  Now,  M.  de  Salemberry,  could  you  tell  me 
why  you  were  so  bent  upon  making  me  write 
my  name  here  in  the  sand  ?  " 

"I,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny,"  answered  Robert, 
blushing  like  a  schoolboy.  "  Do  you  think  I 


176      THE  LETTER  "G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE." 

was  bent  upon  it  ?  Not  at  all,  not  at  all ;  it 
was  chance." 

"  The  explanation  is  very  clear,  sir." 

Another  of  Robert's  fancies  was  to  make 
Gilberte  sing  "The  Lake,"  by  Lamartine. 

Poets,  as  a  rule,  are  not  particularly  fond  of 
music,  unless  they  happen  to  be  in  love  with 
the  musician. 

Women  made  a  poor  exchange  in  giving  up 
the  lute,  the  guitar,  and,  above  all,  the  harp,  for 
the  piano.  We  should  not  like  to  make  ene- 
mies among  the  fair  sex,  but  we  humbly  confess 
that  the  prettiest  woman  in  the  world  when 
playing  the  piano  resembles  a  type-setter  pick- 
ing out  the  letters  from  the  different  compart- 
ments of  his  case. .  But  to  a  heart  deeply 
enamoured  the  woman  loved  is  always  beautiful, 
even  when  playing  the  piano;  which  does  not 
prevent  our  regretting  the  time  when  the 
blond  or  brunette  musician,  standing  beside  a 
grand  harp  with  golden  strings,  resembled  one 
of  Ossian's  heroines. 

One  evening  while  Madame  de  Fleurignyand 
Madame  de  Rille  were  receiving  a  visit  from  a 
rich  farmer  in  the  little  reception-room,  Gil- 


THE  LETTER  "G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE."      i?7 

berte  remained  alone  with  Robert  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  seated  herself  at  the  piano  to 
entertain  him.  She  played  moderately  well,  be 
it  said  to  her  credit,  but  she  had  an  admirable 
voice,  one  of  those  mellow  voices  which  seem 
as  though  bathed  in  heavenly  dew  in  passing 
through  the  soul. 

She  had  just  sung  "  The  Valley,"  by  Lamar- 
tine,  which  in  Gounod's  exquisite  music  glides 
like  a  gentle  river  flowing  through  the  cool, 
shady  meadows.  To  hear  "  The  Valley"  sung 
by  one  we  love  is  very  pleasant,  but  there  is 
something  better;  that  is  "The  Lake." 

Every  verse  of  "  The  Lake"  has  made  hun- 
dreds of  marriages ;  a  number  of  them  ought  to 
make  millions. 

"  Regarde  :  je  vien  seul  m'asseoir  sur  cette  pierre 
Oil  tu  la  vis  s'asseoir." 

"  Oil  tu  la  -vis  sasseoir"  has  married  at  least 
two  thousand  English  maidens. 

"  Ainsi  le  vent  jetait  1'ecume  de  tes  ondes 
Sur  ses  pieds  adores." 

These  two  lines  have  made  still  greater  legit- 
imate havoc. 


I  78      THE  LETTER  "G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE." 

As  to  the  concluding  strophe  of  the  last 
verse — 

"  Tout  disc  :  Us  ont  aime," 

no  further  comment  is  necessary. 

Robert  said  to  himself:  '"The  Valley'  will 
certainly  suggest  to  her  the  idea  of  'The  Lake'  "  ; 
but  not  at  all.  Gilberte  went  with  a  bound  to 
"  Gastibelza,"  music  by  Monpou.  Robert  held 
a  grudge  against  Victor  Hugo  for  this. 

"  I  must  have  'The  Lake,'  "  he  thought. 

But  after  "Gastibelza"  Gilberte  tried  a 
romance  by  Massenet. 

"  I  must  have  'The  Lake/  and  I  will." 

And  Robert  employed  this  primitively  diplo- 
matic means : 

"  Mile,  de  Fleurigny,  have  you  read  the  com- 
mentaries written  by  Lamartine  himself,  on 
'The  Meditations  '  ?  " 

"  No,  M.  de  Salemberry." 

"  Well,  this  is  what  Lamartine  says  a  pr-opos 
of  'The  Lake':  'Of  the  thousand  attempts 
made  to  add  the  plaintive  melody  of  music  to 
the  sighing  of  these  strophes,  one  only  has 
succeeded.  Niedermeyer  has  touchingly  trans- 
lated this  ode  into  music,  and  I  have  seen 


THE  LETTER  "G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE."     179 

tears  flow  when  this  romance  was  sung ;  never- 
theless, I  have  always  thought  that  poe- 
try and  music,  when  combined,  mar  each 
other. '  That  is  rather  disdainful ;  do  you  not 
think  so?  " 

"Somewhat,  I  think." 

"  Have  you  there  this  romance  of  Nieder- 
meyer's?  " 

"Oh,  yes." 

But  Gilberte  began  to  sing  an  old  romance 
of  Loi'sa  Puget's.  There  was  no  further  ques- 
tion of  "The  Lake,"  and  Robert  was  in  des- 
pair. 

The  next  day,  at  the  same  hour,  in  the  same 
room,  the  marquise  said  to  Gilberte : 

"  My  dear  child,  a  little  music  for  the  poor 
prisoner." 

Gilberte  went  to  the  piano,  and,  looking 
archly  at  Robert  in  a  way  not  at  all  habitual  to 
her,  she  began  in  a  most  marvellously  sweet 
voice : 

"  Ainsi  toujours  pousses  vers  de  nouveaux  rivages." 

It  was  "  The  Lake. " 

"She  has   studied   it  since   yesterday;    her 


I  So      THE  LETTER  "G"  AND  "  THE  LAKE." 

self-love  prompted  that,"  thought  Robert,  who 
believed  that  he  understood  young  girls'  hearts. 
Robert  lived  for  several  months  upon  such 
childish  pleasures.  May  God  deign  to  grant 
similar  happiness  to  the  greatest  men  of  this 
world,  if  they  deserve  it ! 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  GENERAL  RETURNS  TO  THE  CAMPAIGN. 

ROBERT  had  some  unhappy  hours  also.  He 
was  called  upon  to  fulfil  a  difficult  diplomatic 
mission  against  which  his  heart  rebelled.  Gil- 
berte  had  been  invited  to  wedding-festivities  at 
a  neighboring  castle.  It  was  an  occasion  of 
the  greatest  importance,  and  her  mother  asked 
Madame  de  Rille  to  come  and  preside  at  Gil- 
berte's  toilette. 

Robert  accompanied  his  aunt  to  the  house, 
and,  while  the  ladies  were  collaborating  over 
this  piece  of  worldly  vanity,  the  young  girl's 
toilette,  he  remained  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room.  It  was  not  unpleasant  to  him  to  see 
Gilberte  going  to  a  dinner  in  full  ball-dress, 
but  he  did  not  like  the  idea  of  seeing  her  only 
for  a  moment,  and  then  not  again  for  the  rest 
of  the  day  and  evening;  he  had  just  then  a 
number  of  important  things  to  say  to  her,  and 

181 


1 82  THE    GENERAL  RETURNS. 

he  had  formed  an  ingenious  plan  to  secure  a 
repetition  of  "  The  Lake. "  And  this  festivity 
comes  and  upsets  everything. 

"  I  am  wrong,"  thought  Robert,  "  I  am 
wrong;  it  is  good  for  a  young  girl  to  have 
amusement  occasionally ;  she  leads  the  life  of 
the  cloister  here.  I  must  not  be  selfish  and 
exacting;  I  am  very  glad  she  is  going  to  have 
a  little  diversion — I  am  very  glad. " 

Gilberte  entered  the  room  all  in  white,  wear- 
ing a  necklace  of  pearls,  a  white  rose  in  her 
golden  hair,  carrying  a  white  fan  in  her  hand. 
Robert  was  dazzled,  but  at  heart  he  was  furi- 
ous. He  noticed  that  her  dress,  which  was  cut 
too  low  according  to  his  opinion,  exposed  to 
view  the  rosy  mother-of-pearl  like  beauty  of 
her  delicate  shoulders,  and  a  multitude  of  tragic 
ideas  crossed  his  mind. 

"The  present  fashions  are  silly  and  indecent. 
A  young  girl  ought  not  to  wear  such  a  low- 
necked  dress,  and  in  the  province,  too.  That 
is  well  enough  in  Paris,  for  Paris  sets  the  fash- 
ion ;  very  soon  there  will  be  no  province.  It 
is  the  fault  of  the  newspapers,  that  are  paid  by 
the  dressmakers  and  milliners.  It  is  the  fault 


THE    GEN-ERAL  RETURNS.  183 

of  the  Empire  that  puts  these  ideas  of  luxury 
into  women's  heads.  Will  nothing  change 
them?  Governments  imitate  one  another;  it  is 
not  worth  while  to  have  a  Republic. " 

Notwithstanding  these  social  and  political 
reflections,  Robert's  countenance  cleared  a  little 
when  he  saw  Gilberte  throw  over  her  shoul- 
ders an  opera-cloak  which  completely  enveloped 
her ;  the  swansdown  border  encircled  the  young 
girl's  pensive  face  like  a  jewel-casket.  The 
parting  smile  Gilberte  bestowed  upon  Robert 
as  she  drove  off  with  her  mother  in  the  carriage 
was  jealously  treasured  by  him,  but  did  not  pre- 
vent his  asking  his  aunt,  when  he  returned  to  the 
house,  a  number  of  singular  questions,  such  as : 

"  Will  there  be  any  officers  at  this  wedding- 
reception  ?  " 

"  Probably,  my  dear  nephew.  General  d' Ace- 
rac,  who  commands  the  division  at  Tours,  is 
invited  with  all  his  staff." 

"  Really,  aunt,  this  is  why  military  men  do 
not  learn  their  profession. " 

During  the  evening  of  this  unlucky  day 
Robert's  thoughts  became  more  and  more 
melancholy.  He  ought  not,  however,  be  too 


184  THE   GENERAL' RETURNS. 

much  blamed  for  this.  It  is  not  particularly 
pleasant  to  know  that  the  young  girl  we  love  is 
at  a  ball,  to  think  of  her  enjoying  a  feast  in 
which  we  have  no  part,  through  all  the  phases 
of  which  we  follow  her  with  anxious  interest, 
and  with  jealousy  all  the  more  poignant  that 
she  knows  nothing  of  it. 

"  During  dinner  all  goes  well ;  there  is  some- 
thing unavoidably  grave  and  solemn  in  a  wed- 
ding-feast. Conversation  is  left  to  the  serious 
members  of  the  company,  and  generally  glides 
into  politics.  But  after  dinner  there  is  the 
ball,  with  the  quadrilles,  the  mazurka,  the  waltz, 
and  that  infamous  cotillon !  Gilberte  is  sure 
to  be  surrounded;  she  does  not  waltz;  no,  cer- 
tainly not ;  but  the  quadrille  is  allowed.  I 
should  really  like  to  know  why  the  quadrille  is 
allowed  ?  As  to  the  cotillon,  that  invention 
of  the  evil  one,  it  is  the  staff  officer's  triumph. 
And  the  cotillon  always  begins  very  late,  when 
the  night  air  is  coolest  and  pours  in  through 
the  windows  left  open  by  imprudent  people; 
there  is  the  real  danger.  Gilberte  may  return 
with  pleurisy,  and  she  will  suffer  cruelly  and 
perhaps  may  die  of  it. " 


THE   GENERAL  RETURNS.  185 

These  were  some  of  the  gloomy  thoughts 
that  surged  like  waves  through  Robert's  brain. 
Madame  de  Rille  noticed  his  preoccupation,  and 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  said  to  him, 
smiling : 

"  You  are  rather  Ossianesque,*  my  dear 
nephew ;  would  you  like  to  hear  some  music, 
by  way  of  diversion?  Shall  I  sing  'The  Lake ' 
for  you?  " 

"  'The  Lake' !  I  shall  be  delighted,  dear  aunt." 

Madame  de  Rille's  voice  was  still  fresh,  and 
she  sang  with  much  taste  and  feeling.  But 
neither  the  words  nor  the  music  touched 
Robert's  heart.  To  him  "  The  Lake"  was  Gil- 
berte.  He  praised  his  aunt's  singing,  however, 
and,  earnestly  thanking  her,  retired  to  his  own 
room. 

The  next  morning,  at  a  very  early  hour,  he 
went  to  inquire  for  Madame  de  Fleurigny  and 
her  daughter. 

Gilberte  was  already  in  the  garden,  her  coun- 
tenance showing  no  signs  of  fatigue,  her  eyes 

*  Ossian  is  a  legendary  hero,  chiefly  known  from  Mac- 
pherson's  "  Poems  of  Ossian."  These  poems  are  rather  of  a 
gloomy  character;  hence  the  word  "  Ossianesque. " 


1 86  THE   GENERAL  RETURNS. 

bright  and  smiling,  and  her  voice  full  and  musi- 
cal as  ever;  there  was  no  fear  of  pleurisy. 

"  You  come  to  inquire  for  my  mother,  M. 
de  Salemberry  ?  Thank  you ;  she  is  sleeping 
like  one  of  the  blessed." 

"And  you,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny?  " 
".Oh,  I  am,  as  you  see,  much  less  fatigued 
than  I  thought  I  should  be." 
"  And  what  of  the  ball,  this  famous  ball  ?  " 
"Well,  I  enjoyed  myself." 
"  Indeed,"  said  Robert,  with  a  very  dissatis- 
fied air. 

"  Yes,  and  then  I  was  dreadfully  bored. " 
"Dreadfully?  really,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny ?" 
"  Yes,  the  cotillon  was  interminable. " 
"  You  had  to  leave  before  the  end  ?  " 
"  I  wanted  to  very  much,  but  it  was  impossi- 
ble;  I'll  not  be  inveigled  into  it  again." 

"  I  am  distressed  to  hear  that  you  were  so 
bored,  Mile.   Gilberte." 
He  was  radiant. 

This  was  a  red-letter  day  tor  our  hero.  She 
was  bored  at  a  ball !  He  hurried  home  to  tell 
this  piece  of  news  to  Madame  de  Rille,  who 
asked  him  coldly : 


THE    GENERAL  RETURNS.  187 

"  Do  you  believe  that,  my  dear  nephew  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  aunt." 

"Then  youth  has  changed  very  much.  In 
my  time  we  were  never  bored  at  a  ball." 

"  Possibly,  but  Gilberte  is  a  person " 

"  Superior,  no  doubt ;  thank  you  for  the  com- 
pliment you  pay  me." 

"  I  only  meant  to  say  that  worldly  pleasures 
have  no  attraction  for  her — nothing  more. " 

"  If  that  is  the  case,  I  am  almost  sorry. 
Love  of  pleasure  should  be  natural  at  her  age. 
If  a  young  girl  is  too  serious  she  is  apt,  sooner 
or  later,  to  take  things  very  tragically. " 

"  What  a  paradox,  aunt. " 

"  Reflect  upon  it,  my  dear  nephew,  and  you 
will  see  that  it  is  founded  on  truth." 

"  I  shall,  my  dear  aunt." 

He  did  not  reflect  upon  it  at  all,  contenting 
himself  with  the  thought  of  Gilberte's  being 
bored  at  a  ball  when  he  was  not  present.  This 
conviction  sufficed  his  happiness  for  several 
days.  Gilberte  seemed  drawn  nearer  to  him 
by  thus  withdrawing  herself  from  worldly  pleas- 
ures, and  he,  forgetting  the  realities  of  life, 
slept  in  this  sweet  dream  as  the  eagles  are 


1 88  THE   GENERAL  RETURNS. 

said  to  sleep  hovering  in  the  sun's  rays  in 
mid-air. 

The  awakening  from  such  dreams  is  some- 
times terrible. 

One  day  Robert  received  a  most  unexpected 
visit  from  General  d'Acerac.  The  general 
charged  upon  the  young  poet  as  he  formerly 
attacked  and  carried  by  storm  the  Malakoff 
Tower. 

"  M.  de  Salemberry,  you  were  the  cause  of 
my  daughter  Isabelle's  not  marrying  Stephen 
de  Fleurigny. " 

"  General,  you  recall  a  memory  very  painful 
to  me." 

"  I  admire  you.  But  as  for  him,  I  confess, 
between  ourselves,  that  in  Stephen's  place  I 
should  have  run  you  through  the  body  as  I 
would  a  rabbit ;  but  he  is  a  philosopher.  Let 
that  pass.  I  have  a  son  as  well  as  a  daughter. 
Alexander  saw  Mile,  de  Fleurigny  at  a  ball  last 
wetk,  and  he  insists  upon  my  asking  her  in 
marriage  for  him. " 

"  Mile.  Gilberte !  "  exclaimed  Robert. 

"  Exactly.  Let  us  proceed  to  facts.  These 
are  my  son's  circumstances :  a  captain  of  cui- 


THE   GENERAL  RETURNS.  189 

rassiers,  twenty-nine  years  of  age,  black  hair, 
smooth  face,  delicate,  firm  hands,  five  feet  eight 
(old  measure),  a  slight  scar  on  the  left  cheek, 
and  a  kind  heart.  You  will  want  to  know,  of 
course,  what  fortune  he  has  ?  " 

"  No,  general,  I  do  not  care  to  know  that. " 

"  I  shall  tell  you,  all  the  same.  At  my  death 
Alexander  will  have  in  my  right  the  sword  that 
I  broke  in  the  body  of  a  Prussian  officer  at 
Borny.  That  is  something.  Besides,  he  has 
now  already  in  right  of  his  poor  mother  an 
income  of  100,000  francs.  As  Mile,  de  Fleu- 
rigny  has  only  a  small  fortune,  this  will  suit 
very  well. " 

"  But,  general,"  stammered  Robert,  "  I  do 
not  see  how  I  can  serve  you  in  this  affair. " 

"  You  can  serve  me  by  making  my  request 
known  to  Madame  de  Fleurigny  and  her  daugh- 
ter. " 

"  I,  general !  " 

"  Exactly.  Your  aunt,  Madame  de  Rille",  I 
am  told,  is  an  intimate  friend  of  Madame  de 
Fleurigny's ;  and  it  is  said  that  you,  sir,  have  a 
great  influence  over  Mile.  Gilberte's  mind  since 
the  appearance  of  that  last  drama  of  yours,  'The 


19°  THE   GENERAL  RETURNS. 

Cid's  Error,'  which,  in  spite  of  public  opinion, 
is  a  fine  play,  but  understood  only  by  military 
men  like  myself. " 

"  That  is  sufficient  honor  for  me,  general. " 

"  In  short,  and  seriously,  M.  de  Salem  berry, 
you  and  I  owe  some  reparation  to  the  de  Fleu- 
rigny  family.  Through  your  fault  I  refused  to 
give  my  daughter  to  that  good  Stephen ;  I  shall 
not  refuse  to  give  my  son  to  the  daughter,  if 
she  will .  have  him.  It  is  my  duty,  and  it  is 
yours  to  aid  me  in  accomplishing  it. " 

"  Very  well,  general,"  replied  Robert  in  a 
quavering  voice,  "  I  shall  execute  the  commis- 
sion with  which  you  charge  me. " 

"  Exactly.  I  shall  expect  your  answer  to- 
morrow. " 

"You  shall  have  it,  general." 

"  You  understand  it  all,  do  you  not  ?  The 
sword  in  the  Prussian's  body,  100,000  francs 
income,  five  feet  eight,  and  a  kind  heart.  Do 
not  forget  his  name — Alexander." 

"  I  shall  forget  nothing,  general. " 

"Exactly." 

And  with  this,  his  habitual  rejoinder,  the 
general  left  Robert  to  his  sad  reflections,  which 


THE   GENERAL  RETURNS,  191 

almost  overwhelmed  him.  The  blood  surged 
so  violently  through  his  heart  he  really  feared 
he  would  die.  A  thunderbolt  had  shattered 
his  dream,  but  the  dreamer  did  not  die  of  the 
shock. 

"That  will  be  later,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"now  I  have  but  one  thing  to  do,  obey  the 
general's  orders.  He  is  right,  it  is  my  duty. 
Moreover,  if  I  do  not  do  it  the  general  will  seek 
some  other  intermediary — that  is  all.  And 
what  would  be  thought  of  my  refusal  ?  What 
right  have  I  to  refuse  ?  It  is  quite  enough  to 
have  wrecked  the  brother's  happiness  without 
now  interfering  with  the  sister's.  After  all, 
this  marriage  will,  no  doubt,  bring  her  happi- 
ness and  good  fortune.  Yes,  happiness  with 
another.  If  I  wished,  however,  I  could  pre- 
vent her  accepting  this  offer.  I  could  explain 
to  her  that  she  could  not,  ought  not,  to  enter 
a  family  from  which  her  brother  was  almost 
driven.  This  is  a  reason  against,  as  well  as 
for,  the  marriage;  it  is,  in  one  sense,  a  repara- 
tion, as  the  general  says,  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  a  new  affront  to  Stephen.  They  are  very 
willing  to  have  his  sister,  but  they  would  not 


192  THE   GENERAL  RETURNS. 

have  him.  I  could  tell  her  this  and  a  hundred 
other  things.  Marrying  an  army  officer  is 
really  very  hazardous,  and  prudent  mothers 
would  much  rather  keep  their  daughters  than 
expose  them  to  such  an  uncertain  future. 
What  would  become  of  Madame  de  Fleurigny 
deprived  of  her  daughter?  She  would  have 
been  a  mother  to  me.  But  the  real  reason  is 
that  I  love  Gilberte,  and  I  do  not  wish  her  to 
marry  another.  I  think  only  of  myself,  and 
that  makes  love  cowardly ;  but  what  of  her  hap- 
piness ?  She,  perhaps,  will  love  this  brave, 
handsome  young  man,  who  is  also  rich  and 
noble,  and  could  not  see  her  without  loving  her. 
Suppose  she  should  marry  some  one  else,  who 
would  prove  unworthy  of  her  and  make  her 
unhappy — one  never  knows  what  may  happen. 
Then  this  would  be  my  own  fault.  Shall  I  be 
the  sister's  executioner  as  well  as  the  brother's  ? 
That  must  not  be!  I  will  do  my  duty;  I  will 
go  and  tell  her  all,  and  say,  such  is  the  man 
who  offers  himself  to  you.  She  will  accept 
him,  of  course,  and  I  shall  advise  her  to  do  so, 
if  necessary.  I  sought  to  repair  the  injury  I  in- 
flicted and  I  did  not  succeed,  but  God  now  sends 


THE   GENERAL  RETURNS.  1 93 

me  this  means  of  reparation.  It  will  be  happi- 
ness for  her,  but  death  to  me.  Oh,  yes  !  and  I 
hope  and  feel  assured  that  death  will  not  long 
be  delayed." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Robert  was  with 
Gilberte.  In  a  calm  voice,  but  with  a  pale 
countenance,  he  repeated  all  that  the  general 
had  just  said  to  him.  Gilberte  listened  in 
silence,  fastening  upon  him  that  vague,  fixed 
look  of  which  we  have  so  often  spoken ;  then, 
leading  him  up  to  Stephen's  portrait,  she  said 
slowly : 

"  In  the  name  of  your  friend  Stephen,  M.  de 
Salemberry,  what  do  you  advise  me  ?  " 

"  In  Stephen's  name,  Mile,  de  Fleurigny,  I 
advise  you  to  marry  M.  d'Acerac." 

And  Robert's  face  became  livid. 

"  I  will  not  marry  M.  d'Ace'rac  nor  any  one 
else." 

"  Why,  Mile.  Gilberte  ?  " 

"  Because  you  love  me,  Robert,  and  because 
I  love  you." 

"  O  Gilberte,  I  shall  die  of  joy !  " 

"  Stay,  Robert.  I  love  you,  but  I  will  never 
marry  you.  Listen  to  me,  and  you  will  then 
13 


194  THE    GENERAL  RETURNS. 

see  that  I  am  right.  I  have  always  loved  you. 
I  cannot  remember  the  time  when  I  did  not 
love  you.  I  know  not  why  I  love  you,  and  I 
have  never  sought  to  discover.  I  only  know 
that  when  you  were  here  I  was  happy ;  when 
you  spoke  to  us  of  poetry  and  art  I  watched 
you,  listened  to  you,  and  my  soul  revelled  as  in 
a  feast.  Once  only  I  was  alarmed  about  you. 
You  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  that  old  stone 
gate  of  which  our  village  is  so  proud,  you  know; 
it  can  be  seen  from  here.  Suddenly  you  be- 
came dizzy.  'He  is  going  to  fall,'  cried 
Stephen,  running  to  your  assistance.  And  I 
thought  I  should  have  died.  I  discovered  on 
that  day  that  I  loved  you.  Do  you  doubt  it, 
Robert?  " 

"No,  Gilberte;  unfortunately,  no." 
"  It  is  true ;  if  you  had  known  how  I  loved 
you,  you  would  not  have  done  what  you  did  to 
Stephen.  When  I  heard  it,  when  my  mother, 
weeping  bitterly,  told  me  that  dreadful  thing, 
when  Stephen,  pale  as  you  are  this  moment, 
told  me  of  his  life's  happiness  wrecked  forever, 
of  his  love  disdained  on  account  of  your  wicked 
deed,  it  seemed  as  though  the  earth  opened 


THE   GENERAL  RETURNS.  1 95 

under  my  feet,  and  that  I  was  about  to  be  swal- 
lowed up  in  an  abyss.  How  bitterly  I  execrated 
you  that  day!  On  my  knees,  with  tears  of 
rage,  I  begged  God  to  avenge  my  brother,  and 
to  punish  you ;  and  I  loved  you  through  it  all. 
But  I  was  ashamed  of  it,  and  I  felt,  with  horri- 
ble despair,  that  what  I  resented  most  in  your 
wicked  act  was  the  suffering  it  caused  me. 
Must  I  confess  it  ?  I  almost  blamed  Stephen 
to  justify  you.  I  said  to  myself,  'He  ought  not 
to  have  been  too  proud  to  give  you  proof  of  his 
innocence;  he  should  have  foreseen  and  pre- 
vented all  this.'  Yes,  I  censured  that  gentle 
martyr,  my  brother.  This  is  to  me,  Robert, 
the  most  grievous  part  of  your  unworthy  deed. 
You  have  made  my  soul  blush,  but  I  am  also  to 
blame,  and  I  must  make  expiation." 

"  You,  Gilberte !  " 

"  Yes,  Robert,  both  of  us — I,  as  well  as  you ; 
we  were  both  to  blame.  Let  us  unite  in  ex- 
piating our  fault.  Stephen  wept  over  his  shat- 
tered love;  we  will  weep  over  the  ruin  of 
ours." 

"  I  bow  submissively  to  the  justice  of  my 
richly  deserved  misery.  But  you,  Gilberte  ?  " 


196  THE   GENERAL  RETURNS. 

"  Do  not  seek  to  dissuade  me,  Robert ;  you 
will  not  succeed;  my  resolution  is  taken." 

"  Will  nothing  move  you,  Gilberte  ?  If  you 
really  loved  me " 

"  It  is  because  I  love  you  that  I  am  going 
away." 

"  Going  away !  " 

"  Yes,  I  start  to-morrow  for  Rome  with  my 
mother,  where  we  shall  join  Stephen,  whose 
prolonged  absence  astonishes  us  and  makes  us 
anxious." 

"  And  when  will  you  return,  Gilberte  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  When  you  have  conquered  your  love  for 
me  ?  " 

"  Never,  then !  " 

"  Never !  " 

"  Yes,  Robert,  never !     You  see  how  neces- 

» 

sary  it  is  that  I  should  go.     Adieu,"  she  added, 
holding  out  to  him  a  cold,  trembling  hand. 

That  same  evening  General  d' Acerac  received 
the  answer  he  was  awaiting : 

"Mv  DEAR  GENERAL: 

"  I  have  not  succeeded  in  the  mission  you  did 


THE    GENERAL   RETURNS.  197 

me  the  honor  to  confide  to  me.     Mile,  de  Fleu- 
rigny  does  not  wish  to  leave  her  mother. 
"  Accept,  my  dear  general,  etc., 

"MARQUIS  ROBERT  DE  SALEMBERRY." 

The  general  answered  immediately : 

"  SIR: 

"  I  thank  you  for  having  fulfilled  the  mission 
I  asked  you  to  accept.  I  hold  you  in  no  way 
responsible  for  its  failure.  Nevertheless,  it 
seems  to  me  that  a  dramatic  author  ought  to 
succeed  better  in  questions  of  marriage.  Alex- 
ander is  in  despair,  but  he  is  a  man  and  will 
soon  console  himself;  exactly. 

"  Receive,  sir,  etc., 

"GENERAL  COUNT  D'ACERAC." 

Gilberte  and  her  mother  left  Rille  the  next 

• 
morning. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

THE     PETIT     LOCAL. 

THE  most  terrible  trials  are  not  those  crush- 
ing sorrows  that  overwhelm  and  kill  at  a  single 
blow;  they  are  those  the  bitterness  of  which 
is  not  felt  at  first,  but  are  borne  in  upon  us 
gradually,  and  dishearten  and  unman  us. 

Robert  did  not,  at  first,  fully  realize  the 
extent  of  his  misfortune.  These  were  the 
thoughts  that  predominated  the  agitation  of  his 
heart  and  soul :  "  She  divined  that  I  loved  her, 
and  she  loves  me ;  she  knows  that  we  love  each 
other,  the  rest  will  adjust  itself.  Gilberte's 
exaltation,  doubtless,  will  not  last.  Now  she 
can  take  only  one  view  of  things ;  later,  soon, 
she  will  see  the  other  side.  Hers  is  a  deeply 
poetic  soul,  rather  tragically  poetic.  She  is 
too  fond  of  Corneille,  and  has  read  'The  Cid' 
too  much.  She,  like  Chimene,  coquettes  with 
love  and  duty,  and  throws  herself  heroically 


THE  PETIT  LOCAL.  199 

into  the  rdle  of  sacrifice ;  but,  like  Chimene,  she 
requires  but  one  word  from  the  king  who  orders 
her  to  forgive  Rodrigues." 

Robert  forgot  that  we  are  living  in  a  republic. 

The  next  day  he  strolled  to  the  village,  and 
went  to  Gilberte's  house,  the  door  of  which  the 
gardener  opened  for  him. 

"  Well,  Father  Fulcran,  the  ladies  went  off 
yesterday?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  How  did  Madame  de  Fleurigny  seem  ?  " 

"  She  seemed  happy  and  very  much  pleased, 
sir.  As  she  entered  the  carriage  she  said  to 
Mile.  Gilberte,  'We  shall  soon  see  Stephen 
again,  my  darling.'  " 

"  And  what  did  Mile.  Gilberte  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir.  I  am  mistaken — she  talked 
a  little  apart  with  Catalina,  the  wife  of  that 
gypsy,  you  know,  a  race  of  savages,  and  I 
caught,  in  passing,  a  few  words  of  what  she 
was  saying  to  her:  'Above  all,  if  M.  Robert 
comes  to  hunt  in  the  Lande.'  I  did  not  hear 
the  rest,  but  I  saw  that  Mile.  Gilberte  slipped 
several  gold  pieces  into  Catalina's  hand,  which 
was  money  badly  placed,  with  all  respect  to 


200  THE  PETIT  LOCAL. 

you,  sir.  Finally,  just  as  they  were  leaving,  I 
took  the  liberty  of  saying  to  the  young  lady, 
'I  hope  you  return  soon,  Mile.  Gilberte?' 
'  Soon !  no,  oh,  no ! '  she  replied,  and  a  tear  rolled 
down  her  cheek,  and  I  thought,  there  is  a  brave 
girl  who  loves  her  country  well." 
"  Thank  you,  Fulcran,  thank  you. " 
Robert  remained  alone  in  the  deserted  house. 
Who  has  not  experienced  the  sadness  that 
pervades  the  empty  house  that  yesterday 
was  filled  with  the  voices,  footsteps,  friendly 
glances,  and  sweet  presence  of  those  who  are 
gone  ? 

As  she  sat  there  near  the  window,  in  the 
large  tapestry -covered  arm-chair,  her  dress  fall- 
ing in  graceful  folds  over  the  old  oaken  foot- 
stool, she  might  have  been  taken  for  one  of  the 
chatelaines  in  Geste's  ballads.  She  was  em- 
broidering a  piece  of  fancywork,  her  figure 
erect,  her  head  bent  slightly  forward,  stopping 
occasionally  to  listen  as  the  old  clock  in  the 
neighboring  church-tower  struck  the  hour ;  she 
had  a  way  of  listening  to  the  striking  of  the 
clock  unlike. other  women.  When  she  rose,  the 
sound  of  her  footsteps  as  she  glided  over  the 


THE  PETIT  LOCAL.  201 

inlaid  floor,  and  the  rustle  of  her  gown,  as  with 
a  quick,  almost  impatient  movement  she  closed 
or  opened  the  window-curtains,  were  like  sweet 
music.  These  are  the  things  that  cling  to  the 
memory.  The  little  drawing-room  seems  like  a 
great  desert  when  she  is  no  longer  there;  how 
cold  and  bare  the  house  is  without  her ;  it  may 
be  better  in  the  garden,  but  there  it  is  still 
more  lonely.  The  rustic  grotto,  where  she  loved 
to  read,  looks  reproachfully  at  the  intruder  who 
dares  to  come  without  her.  The  little  rivulet 
weeps  for  her,  the  turtle-doves  do  not  recognize 
her  former  companion,  and  fly  away  as  she  has 
fled. 

"  I  am  to  blame  for  all  that  has  happened," 
thought  Robert.  "  It  was  I  who  drove  her 
from  her  home ;  she  preferred  exile  to  my 
presence,  and  there  she  is  now  exposed  to  all 
the  dangers  of  a  journey — fatigue,  illness,  fever, 
perhaps  death ! " 

Robert  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and 
shuddered  at  this  idea.  Leaving  the  garden 
he  passed  through  the  house,  his  heart  full  of 
forebodings. 

This   poignant  anxiety  lasted  several  days, 


202  THE  PETIT  LOCAL. 

but  it  was,  fortunately,  relieved  by  Gilberte's 
letter  to  Madame  de  Rille : 

"ROME,  November  i/th. 
"  MADAME  LA  MARQUISE  : 

"  I  shall  write  you  only  a  very  short  letter  to- 
day. We  have  scarcely  been  an  hour  in  Rome, 
and  we  have  just  seen  our  dear  Stephen. 
Mother  and  I  enjoyed  the  journey  very  much ; 
we  were  not  in  the  least  fatigued.  The  rail- 
roads are  too  much  maligned.  Stephen  received 
us  with  his  usual  tenderness,  which  you  so  well 
know.  There  is  an  indescribable  something 
about  him,  a  particularly  happy  air,  which  must 
come  from  something  more  than  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  us.  I  scent  a  mystery;  we  shall  see. 
Begging  you  to  give  our  kind  regards  to  M. 
Robert,  I  am,  with  love  and  respect,  dear 
madame  la  marquise, 

"  GlLBERTE    DE    FLEURIGNY. 

"  P.  S.  Caution  M.  Robert  to  be  very  care- 
ful if  he  goes  hunting  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  gypsies." 

Gilberte's  letter,  showing  that  she  was  per- 


THE   PETIT  LOCAL.  203 

fectly  well,  dispelled  all  Robert's  fears.  It  con- 
tained, moreover,  a  sentence  upon  which  our  poet 
constructed  a  romance.  What  could  be  this  mys- 
tery about  Stephen,  of  which  Gilberte  speaks  ? 

"  If  it  were  a  marriage,  if  Stephen  had  finally 
found  a  beautiful  Roman  to  console  him  !  Yes, 
that  is  it,  it  must  be  that !  Then  there  is  hope 
for  me ;  if  Stephen  is  happy,  Gilberte  will  no 
longer  have  any  reason  for  persisting  in  her  re- 
fusal, in  her  terrible  resolution.  Certainly,  that 
is  it." 

With  these  thoughts  Robert's  imagination 
bounded  to  the  most  radiant  horizon.  But, 
unfortunately,  the  following  extract  from  Gil- 
berte's  second  letter  diminished  his  enthusiastic 
hopes : 

"  Yes,  madame  la  marquise,  we  have  dis- 
covered Stephen's  secret.  There  is'  nothing 
sentimental  about  the  mystery.  Every  day 
Cardinal  Beppo  comes  for  Stephen  and  takes 
him  to  the  Vatican,  where  His  Holiness  receives 
him  in  private  audience.  I  asked  my  brother 
to  what  he  owed  such  rare  honor,  and  this  is 
what  he  told  me : 

"  Stephen  has  undertaken  to  write  a  history 


204  THE  PETIT  LOCAL. 

of  the  first  centuries  of  the  Church.  The  Pope 
is  deeply  interested  in  this  great  work,  and 
Stephen  goes  every  day  to  the  Vatican  to  con- 
fer with  him  on  the  subject.  I  confess  that 
I  imagined,  not  something  better,  but  some- 
thing quite  different.  The  fact  is,  Stephen 
will  never  forget  what  you  know  as  well  as  we. 
He  will  never  marry,  any  more  than  his  sister." 

Gilberte  had  underlined  these  last  words. 

"  It  evidently  was  for  me,"  thought  Robert, 
"and  not  for  my  aunt,  that  she  underlined  that 
last  phrase;  she  wished  to  remind  me  of  her 
unalterable  resolution.  This  dispels  my  dream 
of  happiness.  'Any  more  than  his  sister  !  ' ' 

And  yet  Robert  continued  to  hope ;  it  seemed 
to  him  impossible  that  Stephen's  good  advice, 
for  he  now  knew  how  generous  he  was,  could 
fail,  with  absence  and  separation,  to  have  a  bet- 
ter influence  on  the  young  girl's  mind.  Hope 
in  the  heart  of  a  lover  is  like  the  roots  of  the 
oak,  the  depth  of  which  exceeds  the  height  of  its 
branches.  Robert  always  repeated  to  himself 
after  his  reveries  :  "  Nothing  is  lost,  life  is  long." 

One  morning  Robert  while  walking  in  the 
park  met  the  postman,  who  gave  him  the  mar- 


THE  PETIT  LOCAL.  205 

quise's  mail.  On  one  of  the  letters,  bearing  the 
Naples  stamp,  he  recognized  Madame  de  Fleu- 
rigny's  handwriting.  Lovers  have  intuitions. 

"  Gilberte  is  ill !  "  exclaimed  Robert  to  him- 
self, as  he  ran  breathlessly  to  the  castle. 

"  Read  this  quickly,  aunt.  Gilberte  is  ill." 
He  was  not  mistaken.  This  was  the  letter: 

"  NAPLES,  November  28th. 
"DEAR,  KIND  FRIEND: 

"  I  am  very  anxious  about  Gilberte.  She 
caught  the  marsh-fever  at  Rome,  and  we  brought 
her  away  without  a  moment's  delay.  The 
physicians  here  have  as  yet  given  no  opinion. 
Pray  for  my  poor  child. 

"  Your  desperate  friend, 

"  VlCTORINE    DE    FLEUR1GNY.  " 

"  She  will  die !  Gilberte  is  dying,  is  perhaps 
dead  already  !  Oh  !  aunt,  you  do  not  know  that 
I  love  her,  and  that  she  loves  me.  If  she  dies 
I  will  kill  myself." 

"  If  I  had  only  known !  Come,  my  child,  let 
us  have  recourse  to  God,"  said  the  marquise, 
and  she  went  with  her  nephew  to  the  little 
church  at  Rille. 


206  THE  PETIT  LOCAL. 

Robert  was  religious  in  mind  and  heart,  but 
literary  life,  especially  his  theatrical  works,'had 
made  him  an  indifferent  Christian.  When  in 
the  country  he  went  to  Mass  for  the  sake  of 
good  example  and  to  please  his  aunt.  In  Paris 
he  went  only  to  nuptial  and  requiem  Masses. 
"  That  is  always  so  much  loss  to  the  devil,"  he 
would  say  laughingly  to  his  friends. 

He  did  not  laugh  now.  He  went  directly  to 
the  Blessed  Virgin's  altar,  and,  joining  his 
hands,  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  poured  forth  a 
cry  of  lover  and  poet,  in  which  the  prayers  of 
his  childhood,  recalled  in  fragments,  were  min- 
gled with  formulas  and  phrases  of  theatrical 
literature;  but  it  was  all  spontaneous,  simple, 
and  sincere. 

"  Obtain,  good  Mother  of  Sorrows,  that  Gil- 
berte  may  not  die.  Queen  of  Angels,  obtain 
for  me  the  life  of  this  good  angel.  Consoler  of 
the  Afflicted,  remember  the  night  of  Golgotha, 
and  the  arms  of  that  tree  dyed  in  the  blood  of 
thy  Son.  I  love  Gilberte  and  she  loves  me;  let 
her  not  be  taken  from  me,  or  take  me  with  her. 
I  have  been  proud  and  wicked ;  I  will  be  good 
and  humble  now,  and  do  all  the  good  I  can  in 


THE  PETIT  LOCAL.  207 

the  world ;  I  take  thy  white  veil,  thy  holy 
aureole,  and  the  smile  of  the  infant  God  whom 
thy  hands  hold  out  to  those  who  weep,  as  silent 
witnesses  of  my  vow.  Restore  Gilberte  to  me, 
O  my  Mother!" 

Robert  rose  from  his  prayer  more  calm,  and 
returned  with  his  aunt  to  the  castle.  In  the 
evening  all  his  anguish  revived,  poetic  mem- 
ories mingled  with  his  personal  sorrow;  Gil- 
berte dying  in  Graziclla  s  country  recalled  to  his 
mind  "  The  Coral  Fisher,"  Lamartine's  beauti- 
fully pathetic  poem  on  "  La  Fille  d'Ischia"  : 

"  In  her  first  tear  she  drowned  her  heart !  " 

Gilberte  also  had  drowned  her  heart  in  her 
first  tear,  and,  since  it  was  he  who  had  caused 
that  tear  to  flow,  God  should  punish  him,  not 
Gilberte. 

No  sleep  came  to  Robert's  relief  that  night. 
Such  sleepless  nights  fully  expiate  evil  deeds. 
At  early  dawn  he  hurried  to  the  post-office  for 
the  mail.  There  were  no  letters,  only  a  tele- 
gram : 

"  Gilberte  is  saved ;  there  is  no  danger  now. 
"IscHiA,  December  ist.  STEPHEN," 


208  THE  PETIT  LOCAL. 

Robert  wept  like  a  child,  and  returned,  al- 
most crazed  with  joy,  to  bring  the  good  news 
to  his  aunt. 

These  illusive  hopes,  deceptive  fears,  bitter 
memories,  and  dreams  of  happiness,  alternated 
repeatedly  in  Robert's  heart  since  Gilberte's 
departure  and  illness,  as  if  an  invisible  hand 
had  doled  out  to  him  equal  measures  of  hope 
and  fear. 


Early  in  March  a  son  and  heir  was  born  to 
M.  and  Mme.  de  Nolongue,  and  Robert  was 
godfather  to  this  pink  and  white  prodigy. 

The  intelligence  shown  by  this  new  citizen, 
when  only  a  week  old,  was  doubtless  due  to 
heredity;  a  deputy's  son  ought  to  prove  his 
patriotism  by  manifesting  his  intelligence  at 
an  early  age.  The  first  and  strongest  mark  of 
intelligence  he  gave  was  his  authoritative  man- 
ner of  asking  for  a  drink,  nor  was  he  satisfied 
with  the  sugared  water  with  which  the  fre- 
quenters of  the  Palais-Bourbon  quench  their 
thirst.  A  gesture  sufficed,  but  it  was  so  imper- 
ative that  his  mother  never  could  resist  the 


THE  PETIT  LOCAL.  209 

eloquent  appeals,  which  were  as  much  admired 
by  the  godfather  as  by  the  parents. 

But  history  must  not  be  falsified;  the 
deputy's  son  acquired  faults  as  he  grew,  and 
became  gradually  less  angelic.  For  example, 
when  he  had  completely  gorged  himself  in  sat- 
isfying his  appetite,  his  gray  eyes  sparkling  and 
his  small  face  crimson  with  satisfaction,  he 
showed  his  fist,  revealing  the  future  orator;  he 
was  already  a  good  interrupter,  for  when  his 
parents  and  godfather  were  chatting  quietly  to- 
gether, while  watching  him  smiling  in  his  nurse's 
arms,  he  would  suddenly  interrupt  these  long 
conversations,  of  which  he  understood  nothing, 
by  bawling  like  one  possessed. 

This  was  intolerable.  A  call  to  order  did 
not  suffice,  even  censure  was  of  no  avail ;  then 
Louis  de  Nolongue,  recalling  the  strict  rules  of 
the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  would  cry  out : 

"  Au  petit  local,  an  petit  local !  "  * 

The/6-///  local  was  the  silk  and  lace-trimmed 

*A    room    near  the  senate-chamber   to   which,    formerly, 
unruly  members  were   banished   when  they  interrupted   the 
proceedings.       The   room   still    exists,    though    the  custom 
has  passed  into  disuse. — [TRANSLATOR. 
14 


210  THE  PETIT  LOCAL. 

cradle,  a  dainty  nest  that  had  been  prepared  for 
the  arrival  of  the  little  bird,  to  which  the 
mother  carried  the  noisy  interrupter.  Under 
its  influence  the  cries  ceased  as  if  by  magic, 
and  the  offender  immediately  fell  asleep.  Here 
it  was  that  he  showed  to  best  advantage ;  the 
fond  parents  and  the  godfather  gazed  upon  him 
with  admiration  and  delight,  and  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say  which  admired  the  most.  The 
father's  pride  was  a  pleasure  to  behold,  and, 
although  Robert  shared  his  cousin's  happiness, 
yet  he  could  not  help  envying  it  a  little. 

Poets  are  very  fond  of  children.  Great  poets 
are  made  for  the  double  paternity  of  men  and 
thoughts ;  they  have  a  peculiar  ambition,  a  secret 
pride  in  transmitting  their  genius  to  posterity. 

Robert  had  long  cherished  this  proud  ambi- 
tion, and  the  sweet  dream  of  seeing  it  realized ; 
but  he  now  felt  convinced  that  his  fond  dream 
had  forever  vanished,  and  each  day  added  to 
the  bitterness  of  his  regret.  In  spite  of  the 
envy  aroused  by  his  visits,  he  went  regularly 
to  watch  his  godson  sleeping  in  his  pretty 
cradle,  the  petit  local,  and  chose  the  time  when 
he  could  be  alone  with  the  prisoner. 


THE  PETIT  LOCAL.  21 1 

That  charming  domestic  picture,  a  sleeping 
child,  is  generally  very  soothing  to  a  man.  It 
was  not  so  with  Robert ;  the  sight  of  this  little 
rosy  angel  increased  his  envy,  and  he  felt  him- 
self becoming  more  and  more  sad  and  desolate. 
Then  he  thought  of  Gilberte,  who  like  him 
adored  children,  loved  to  fondle  and  caress 
them,  and  knew  so  well  how  to  care  for  them, 
but  who  was  never  to  know  the  august  joy  of 
motherhood,  for,  on  account  of  his  revengeful 
pride,  she  had  condemned  herself  to  forego  this 
happiness. 

This  idea  pursued  Robert  remorsefully;  he 
tried  in  vain  to  escape  it ;  the  implacable  goad 
was  in  the  flesh,  and  he  himself  turned  the  iron 
in  the  wound  with  a  sort  of  savage  delight. 

"  I  am  destined  to  martyrize  all  who  love 
me,  the  sister  even  more  than  the  brother. 
There  is  a  fatality  about  me  that  makes  every- 
thing I  touch  crumble.  My  own  life  has  been 
a  failure,  and  I  have  wrecked  the  lives  of  others. 
Were  I  to  go  away,  to  disappear,  if  the  hand  of 
death  we're  mercifully  laid  upon  me,  it  would 
only  be  removing  an  evil  thing.  Who  knows 
what  harm  I  may  yet  do?  My  hands  are  full 


212  THE  PETIT  LOCAL. 

of  tempests,  and  the  dark  forger  of  evil  works 
in  my  breast.  I  have  made  Gilberte  suffer, 
and  I  shall  cause  her  still  more  suffering.  If 
a  ball  from  a  poacher's  gun  should  pierce  my 
skull  in  a  lonely  path,  the  poacher  would  render 
me  a  service  as  well  as  others." 

This  idea  of  death,  this  thirst  for  a  bloody 
expiation  crept  gradually  into  Robert's  mind 
and  took  complete  possession  of  his  imagina- 
tion. Poets,  dreamers,  those  whose  minds  are 
ill  at  ease,  have  a  feverish  curiosity  about  the 
unknown.  They  are  homesick  for  that  land  to 
which  the  soul  must  one  day  go ;  and  when  at 
night  they  eagerly  contemplate  the  starry  fir- 
mament, each  star  is  a  magnet  attracting  them 
thither.  Robert  had  too  noble,  too  religious  a 
soul  to  think  of  suicide.  Moreover,  it  would 
be  a  cause  of  reproach  to  him,  as  he  would  con- 
sider it  an  additional  crime  to  leave  Gilberte 
such  a  horrible  memory.  No,  he  dreamed  of  a 
noble,  glorious  death,  in  some  great  battle  in  de- 
fence of  the  country,  on  the  bridge  of  a  man-of- 
war,  shattered  by  bombs,  or  some  battlefield  in 
Alsace  or  Lorraine,  riddled  with  bullets.  But 
the  sombre  Angel  of  War  has  long  since  taken 


THE   PETIT  LOCAL.  213 

flight,  doubtless  for  too  long  a  time.  Those 
who  wish  to  die  must  await  God's  good  time. 

Robert  was  anxious  to  die ;  he  did  not  wish 
to  kill  himself,  but  he  might  expose  himself 
to  death,  did  timely  occasion  offer.  A  de- 
spatch from  Langeais  brought  frightful  news  to 
the  inhabitants  of  Rille.  The  Loire  had  over- 
flowed its  banks,  the  dikes  were  broken  above 
Langeais,  and  all  the  country  was  under  water. 
Robert  only  took  time  to  saddle  his  horse  and 
rode  off  at  a  gallop. 

At  Langeais  the  scene  was  terrifying.  The 
raging  flood  swept  far  out  of  sight,  bearing  on 
its  seething  waves  the  wreck  of  ruined  towns 
and  villages.  Below  Langeais  a  little  hamlet 
was  almost  submerged  beneath  the  foaming 
waters,  and  from  the  high  ground  and  the  castle 
towers,  the  inhabitants,  who  had  taken  refuge 
on  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  could  be  seen  wav- 
ing their  arms  in  despair. 

To  attempt  to  save  them  seemed  useless  and 
foolhardy,  even  to  the  most  venturous  sailor 
and  the  most  fearless  life  saver;  but  Robert 
sprang  into  a  boat,  unfastened  the  moorings, 
and  launched  out  into  the  torrent 


214  THE  PETIT  LOCAL. 

"  He  is  lost !  "  cried  the  crowd ;  but  with  great 
skill,  strength,  and  extraordinary  coolness  he 
guided  the  boat  towards  the  village,  which  he 
soon  reached,  borne  on  by  the  current.  Dex- 
terously catching  the  rope  thrown  to  him  from 
a  window,  he  collected  the  frightened  people  in 
his  small  craft,  and  launched  out  again  into  the 
stream.  The  current,  fortunately,  carried  the 
boat  towards  the  nearest  shore,  and  drove  it  upon 
the  bank  so  rapidly  and  with  such  force  that  it 
stuck  fast  in  the  sand.  The  violent  shock  threw 
a  child  from  its  mother's  arms  into  the  water, 
and  it  was  carried  off  on  a  wave.  Robert  im- 
mediately plunged  into  the  flood,  crying  out 
"  For  Gilberte  !  "  and  swam  desperately  towards 
the  child,  which  was  disappearing.  After  a 
frantic  struggle  he  succeeded  in  reaching  the 
shore  with  his  burden,  where  he  fell,  completely 
exhausted,  and  lay  with  closed  eyes,  perfectly 
unconscious  and  apparently  lifeless. 

But  death  would  not  claim  him.  In  a  few 
minutes  Robert  was  restored  to  consciousness, 
and  in  the  evening  he  returned  to  Rill6  castle. 

This  thrilling  incident,  notwithstanding  the 
satisfaction  derived  from  a  well-accomplished 


THE  PETIT  LOCAL.  215 

duty,  only  increased  Robert's  depression.  When 
he  was  so  near  death  it  had  seemed  so  sweet 
to  him,  that  his  regret  at  having  missed  it  was 
greater  than  his  desire  for  it  had  been,  and  he 
sank  into  the  deepest  melancholy,  dwelling  for 
long  hours  on  the  vision  that  appeared  to  his 
excited  imagination,  as  with  closed  eyes  he  lay 
awaiting  death.  He  believed  that  he  saw  Gil- 
berte  lean  over  him  and  press  her  lips  to  his 
brow. 

This  memory  clung  to  him  in  his  continually 
feverish  state,  and  he  still  longed  for  death, 
that  he  might  see  Gilberte  once  more,  and  again 
feel  upon  his  brow  the  caressing  touch  of  those 
adored  lips. 

The  mind  cannot  long  resist  the  baneful 
effect  of  dwelling  on  the  same  thoughts,  feel- 
ings, and  desires.  Robert's  relatives  and  friends 
became  alarmed  at  the  change  in  his  habits,  and 
often  thought  that  the  mournful  sadness  of  his 
countenance  and  his  fixed  gaze  showed  vague 
signs  of  insanity. 

One  day,  alone  in  his  study,  he  sat  mechani- 
cally holding  a  book  open  on  his  knee,  staring 
steadily  at  an  angle  of  the  wall,  deeply  buried 


2i6  THE  PETIT  LOCAL. 

in  thought,  and  so  absorbed  in  his  profound 
meditation  that  he  did  not  hear  the  door  open, 
and  only  turned  his  head  when  he  felt  a  hand 
laid  on  his  shoulder. 

It  was  a  young  priest  who  had  entered,  and 
with  outstretched  arms  said  to  him,  smilingly : 

"  Well,  Robert,  welcome  your  future  pas- 
tor ! " 

"  Stephen !" 

They  folded  each  other  in  an  affectionate 
embrace,  and  then  Stephen  continued,  in  a 
graver  tone : 

"  Listen  to  me,  Robert.  I  wrote  you,  if  you 
remember,  that  perhaps  I  should  owe  my  hap- 
piness to  you,  and  I  was  not  mistaken.  My 
heart  was  broken  at  one  time,  and  the  frag- 
ments were  of  no  use  in  the  world,  but  God 
was  willing  to  accept  them.  I  was  not  made 
for  the  storms  of  human  passions,  and  I  took 
refuge  in  great  peace  of  soul.  Thanks  to  you, 
I  am  a  priest.  You  alone  could  expiate  the 
fault  you  committed,  and  which  you  have  now 
sufficiently  deplored ;  the  victim  only  could  re- 
pair it.  For  three  years  I  studied  to  improve 
my  mind,  and  consulted  my  heart  to  learn  if  I 


THE  PETIT  LOCAL.  217 

should  be  worthy  of  this  new  mission.  The 
Sovereign  Pontiff  deigned  to  consider  me  wor- 
thy, and  was  good  enough  to  shorten  for  me 
the  time  of  probation,  which  is  rarely  done. 
What  Gilberte  confided  to  my  mother  and  to 
me  finally  decided  me  to  take  this  step. " 

"  Gilberte !  Oh,  Stephen,  do  you  know 
then " 

"  All  that  you  have  suffered  for  each  other. 
I  reproved  her  for  her  excessive  severity,  and  I 
strongly  disapproved  of  her  inflexible  resolution. 
I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  overcome  her  scru- 
ples sufficiently  to  make  her  promise  to  be  your 
wife,  but  if  she  has  not  said  yes,  she  has  not,  at 
least,  said  no.  Take  courage,  then,  and  let  time 
do  its  work.  You  show  the  effect  of  the  terri- 
ble blow  you  have  experienced.  I  pity  you 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and  I  long  to 
assuage  your  present  suffering.  I  bless  you 
for  the  anguish  you  caused  me  in  days  gone  by, 
since  it  has  given  me  to  God. " 

Then  Stephen,  affectionately  embracing  Rob- 
ert, continued  in  a  familiar  tone,  his  noble  face 
beaming  with  the  pleasant  smile  habitual  to 
him : 


2i8  THE  PETIT  LOCAL. 

"  My  great,  illustrious  friend,  I  shall  de- 
nounce you  to  Gilberte. " 

"  Why,  Stephen — why?  " 

"  You  have  not  even  asked  where  she  is. " 

"  I  had  not  the  courage,  dear  Stephen,  but 
where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Have  you  had  no  suspicion,  my  poor  fellow  ? 
She  is  here,  downstairs  in  the  drawing-room 
with  my  mother  and  your  aunt." 

"  Let  us  go  down  at  once.  But  I  am  afraid. 
You  will  defend  me,  will  you  not,  Stephen  ?  " 

At  sight  of  Gilberte  Robert  seemed  to  re- 
cover himself  completely.  He  suddenly  felt  all 
his  strength  of  mind  restored,  all  his  genius 
awaken  with  the  love  that  shone  in  his  eyes  and 
throbbed  in  his  heart.  After  an  interchange  of 
cordial  greetings  with  the  mother  and  daughter, 
Robert  was  suddenly  seized  with  an  irresistible 
desire  to  show  them  his  godson. 

"  Mile.  Gilberte,"  said  he,  with  a  smile  that 
had  been  rare  of  late,  "  will  you  do  me  a  favor — 
will  you  come  with  me  to  Les  Chartrettes  to  see 
the  petit  local  of  my  godson,  Prosper  de  No- 
longue  ? " 


THE   PETIT  LOCAL.  219 

"  What  is  t\iQ  petit  local?" 

"  You  will  see. " 

They  all  set  out  together  for  Les  Chartrettes. 
On  the  way  fresh  anxiety  took  possession  of 
Robert's  mind  as  to  how  he  should  persuade 
her  to  say  yes. 

When  they  arrived  they  found  that  Master 
Prosper  de  Nolongue  had  just  been  indulging 
in  the  noisiest  of  interruptions,  and  had  been 
put  in  the  petit  local ;  Gilberte  was  amused  at 
Robert's  explanation  of  the  affair. 

The  baby  was  in  a  deep  sleep;  his  little 
breast  rose  and  fell  under  the  folds  of  its  dainty 
dress,  his  hands  clutched  an  ivory  rattle,  the 
bells  of  which  were  as  silent  as  he,  the  soft 
lashes  cast  a  light  shadow  on  the  delicate  pink 
cheeks,  his  parted  lips  showing  his  rose-lined 
mouth.  They  all  gazed  upon  this  masterpiece 
with  that  respect  due  to  a  work  of  art,  no  one 
venturing  to  speak  for  fear  of  disturbing  his 
slumber ;  but  all  eyes  said  plainly,  "  How  beau- 
tiful ! " 

Robert,  observing  the  softening  influence  this 
lovely  spectacle  of  a  sleeping  angel  had  on 
Gilberte,  determined  to  avail  himself  of  it,  and, 


220  THE  PETIT  LOCAL. 

throwing  his  whole  soul  into  his  pleading  eyes, 
he  raised  them  in  mute  appeal  to  hers.  Gil- 
berte  returned  his  gaze,  her  heart  responded  to 
his  yearning  glances,  and  she  softly  murmured, 
"Yes." 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE    LAST    SONNET. 

THE  marriage  was  celebrated  in  the  little 
church  at  Rille.  Stephen  claimed  the  right  of 
giving  Gilberte  and  Robert  the  nuptial  bless- 
ing. Only  the  relatives  and  most  intimate 
friends  were  invited;  but  they  reckoned  with- 
out the  Paris  papers.  Pierre  Robes,  always 
fully  informed  of  everything,  gave  the  signal 
by  an  article  in  The  Viper — a  very  respectful 
article,  however,  showing  no  little  emotion. 
The  other  papers  not  wishing  to  be  outdone, 
there  appeared  about  sixty  articles  full  of  singu- 
lar and  contradictory  details.  The  railroad 
organized  a  marriage-train,  and  Robert  was 
surprised  to  find  all  the  Mite  of  Paris  in  the 
little  church  at  Rille".  This  did  not,  how- 
ever, disturb  him  very  much,  for  the  bride  was 
fair  to  see,  and  he  did  not  object  to  her  being 
seen. 


222  THE  LAST  SONNET. 

Stephen,  in  the  presence  of  this  unexpected 
audience,  escaped,  by  the  simplicity  of  his  bear- 
ing and  manner,  a  situation  which  might  have 
been  embarrassing.  He  spoke  to  the  young 
bride  and  groom  as  a  priest  very  seriously, 
and  as  a  brother  with  a  tenderness  and  affec- 
tion that  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  even 
the  reporters,  who  are  not  usually  given  to 
weeping. 

The  wedding-breakfast  was  given  by  the  good 
Marquise  de  Rille  at  the  castle. 

Since  his  return  Stephen  had  felt  that  the 
best  way  of  showing  Robert  that  he  had  for- 
gotten the  past  was  by  casually  referring  to  it. 
With  this  intention  he  occasionally  reminded 
Robert  of  what  he  called  their  "  illustrious  quar- 
rel," and  he  finally  succeeded  in  making  Robert 
join  with  him  in  laughing  at  it,  by  quietly  teas- 
ing him  from  time  to  time  about  that  celebrated 
"Poisonous  Fang," — "the  spirit  of  which 
amounts  to  no  more  than  the  title,"  he  would 
pleasantly  add;  so  that  after  a  while  Robert 
rather  relished  the  kindly  epigrams  of  his  in- 
tended victim,  and  finally  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  he  himself  was  decidedly  the  victim 


THE   LAST  SONNET.  223 

now;  in  which  opinion  Gilberte  to  a  certain 
extent  agreed  with  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  repast  Stephen  rose, 
smiling,  and  made  the  following  little 
speech : 

"  My  dear  brother-in-law  Robert,  you  shall 
not  escape  even  on  this  occasion.  This  is  a  son- 
net ;  I  have  written  many  of  them  in  my  youth- 
ful days ;  history  relates  that  they  did  not  all 
meet  with  your  approbation.  This  one  will  be 
my  last : 

"  'Tis  the  last  sonnet  I  shall  ever  write, 
And  for  my  recompense  my  friend  shall  say 
What  merit  in  my  verse— for  who,  I  pray, 
May  better  tell  or  with  a  clearer  sight  ? 
As  late  I  wandered  in  the  crescent  light 
And  lessening  shadows  of  the  morning  gray, 
And  heard  the  wild  bird's  music  by  the  way, 
No  tear,  I  said,  nor  shadow  from  the  night. 
Should  cloud  the  splendor  of  a  day  so  bright 
In  promise  and  fulfilment.     May  the  best 
Of  all  things  wait  thce.     Journey  forth,  I  pray, 
Genius  and  grace  in  happy  union  blest, 
To  the  far  portals  of  the  endless  day, 
With  fame  and  bliss  unclouded,  and  have  rest." 

Stephen,  seeing  that  the  tears  in  Robert's 
eyes  were  about  to  overflow,  said : 


224  THE  LAST  SONNET. 

"  Well,  Robert,  what  do  you  think  of  my  last 
sonnet  ?  If  you  think  it  poor,  do  not,  at  least, 
say  so  in  public. " 

"  Stephen,  you  always  were  a  tease,"  answered 
Robert,  smiling. 

About  ten  o'clock  the  Marquise  de  Rille 
took  Robert  aside,  and  said  in  a  mysterious 
manner : 

"  My  dear  nephew,  I  have  a  present  to  make 
you,  to  say  nothing  of  my  fortune." 

"  What  present,  my  dear  aunt  ?  " 

"  I  give  you  the  'Game  of  Virtues,'  to  which, 
you  know,  you,  to  a  certain  extent,  owe  your 
happiness. " 

"  I  accept,  but  I  do  not  see  it  in  the  drawing- 
room  as  usual.  Where  is  it,  my  dear  aunt; 
where  has  it  been  put  ?  " 

The  marquise,  with  that  merry  smile  habitual 
to  her  on  occasions  of  this  kind,  said : 

"  Where  is  'The  Game  of  Virtues'  ?  Can  you 
not  guess  where  it  has  been  put  ?  " 

"  No,  cruel  aunt !" 

"  What  sublime  simplicity !     In  your  room. " 


THE  LAST  SONNET.  225 

All  the  characters  of  this  story  are  equally 
happy,  although  unequally  deserving. 

Louis  de  Nolongue,  now  the  happy  father  of 
twins,  continues  to  pity  his  predecessor,  the 
late  M.  Morel,  who  had  no  children. 

Pierre  Robes,  while  continuing  as  journalist, 
still  makes  repeated  theatrical  ventures ;  one  of 
his  plays  is  hissed  every  three  months,  but  this 
does  not  prevent  the  managers  asking  him  for 
others.  This  is  done  as  a  medical  precaution,  so 
to  speak.  Robes'  plays  turn  the  bad  humor  of 
the  public  on  him  alone ;  they  are  played  for  the 
same  reason  that  we  have  ourselves  vaccinated 
and  re-vaccinated — to  carry  off  the  bad  humors. 

The  manager  of  The  Viper  is  senator ;  he  has 
changed  the  name  of  his  paper,  which  is  now 
called  The  Antidote.  Unfortunately,  The  Anti- 
dote has  a  very  small  circulation. 

Maria  Orfano,  the  great,  noble  actress,  has 
given  up  the  stage.  She  left  France  to  marry 
a  Russian — Sebastopol's  revenge. 

Jacques  Alencon  is  Minister  of  Fine  Arts, 
which  gives  him  an  opportunity  of  adequately 
tormenting  his  former  confreres,  the  theatrical 
managers. 
15 


226  THE   LAST  SONNET. 

Finally,  the  Marquise-  de  Rille  is  godmother 
to  Gilberte's  first-born,  and  she  heroically  de- 
clares that  she  will  be  godmother  to  all  that 
may  follow. 


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AN  AMERICAN  INDUSTRY.  A  full  description  of  the  Silver- 
smith's Art  and  Ecclesiastical  Metalwork  as  carried  on  in 
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casting,  spinning,  chasing,  buffing,  gilding,  and  burnishing. 
The  numerous  beautiful  half-tone  illustrations  show  the 
machinery  and  tools  used,  as  well  as  rich  specimens  of  the 
work  turned  out. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILI" 


A     000  004  866     0 


